Kyra and You

Kyra and You

She sketched her ideal self in a nude pose and a second of her in a simple and simply undeniably cute dress. This pencil version of her felt like a mirror image. How strange when she was the mirror instead of every single person she had to interact with.

All her life, she’d had to blend in with all her brain cells firing to remain that chameleon. No wonder then, that walking the halls of high school she felt that she could not hold any more information in her head. For the rest of her life.

Growing up she was raised a boy, or at least perceived as masculine - yet no. Her aunts and uncles, her grandparents, even her mom had all seen the feminine in her. But they had never seen this woman she drew who felt more her than anything ever had.

A Mike she had been - bounced back and forth like a pingpong ball - between her mother and father, whom she called Baba. They hit her with their rackets of influence. Her sister, though several years younger, went from a pingpong to a player with her own racket in play. 

Back as a kid she never felt the mirror boy was her. Then puberty. She hid her hairy legs in pants for a month before giving up and wearing shorts again sometimes. She remembered the very moment her voice had first vibrated her whole body on a hiking trip. She had been at once fascinated that a voice could do that and horrified it was so deep.

The last thing she wanted - no. She dreaded becoming her father. She didn’t know what she wanted. Her wife wanted a house and to travel to many countries. Kyra wanted this. 

If she had no ego at all then she would create one. Her mind was a vast world of creativity and she hardly lived in this one.

She put her ego to paper. Kyra continued to draw. She was in hyperfocus. Page after page. Blank pages. Pages with barely space for additional sketches. Pages with notes of her endless ruminations. All of those were reflections of her. She drew in the spaces available.

By one-twenty in the afternoon, she had to face reality. They were going for Ramen with friends for dinner. She ceased sketching and put her pencil down.

She passed a small mirror in the hallway; a 1:1 mirror at her head height.Seeing her long hair in the mirror out of the corner of her eye blessed her with a rise of euphoria.

In the bathroom she stared at the hot sexy man looking back.Yes he was attractive with his short beard and long hair. But that wasn't her.

She felt herself dissociating, separating from herself, but she needed to be present. Coming back to herself slowly was hard. She hated how seeing her unshaven face made her feel like a man - against her will. Once shaven and with a light foundation on, she matched her reflection.

“Let’s go!” her wife called.

At the restaurant she drew more. Scribble, shade. She had discovered the secret to saving money on razors. Leggings. Once sketched she sought out the same look that she’d drawn. Her wife helped. She could avoid shaving her legs before going out. 

She spun and spun, which twirled her dress.

“Did you want to wear a dress just to do that?” her wife asked from the couch.

“No, I just love this. Dresses are the best. Why would men not want to have more fun? They're so boring.”

Meanwhile her wife wore a huge blanket hoodie everyday after work. Neither acknowledged that fact.Kyra couldn’t even see a single boobie under those folds, and two boobies were missing in there somewhere. 

A thought. She would draw clothing styles that she’d like to wear. She traced over her pencil sketches in pen - an art pen.

A thought. She learned to sew. She wore fashion with eagerness. She embraced the personalities in earnest and posed in the mirror with each. These, though wonders, were fantasies. They brought euphoria too. Still she saw herself as the woman in the mirror. However, ever present was the self that was not her. The hair that grew like an everywhere plague. The hideous flat chest.

Who was that … man?

This was not the avatar of her soul that she would have chosen for herself … had she had a choice.

What did her wife see?

“Hey bo- girl!”

Sometimes I feel like nothing’s changed. 

This experience is a privilege.

Your turn.

_____

You stare in the mirror. That’s not you. How could it be? You don't have a beard and hair on your shoulders. You don't have that face. You don’t have a fucking flat chest. And your hips. where are your fucking hips? 

But that is you. This mirror is no magical artifact. This mirror is a mundane objective technology. How can you deny this image? Ah, your mind mirror is a friendly subjective reflection. Now that is a magic mirror. A fantastic self-image. A fantasy.

You’ve had your name since birth. A new name feels foreign.

Kyra.

K for the kiss you grant your soul.

y  for river winding.

r  for the shape of a hill.

a  the girl that smiles genuinely back at you.

Kyra is always written in cursive of course.

You try to curve your doppleganger’s visage in a cursive form by turning away. You lean back. You gaze back over your shoulder. You find the feminine.

Your back - plagued with acne - reminds you of a Magic the Gathering card.

It was a spell of pestilence.

The back of the victim painted on that card matched your own back now.

You need a real spell. Estradiol, a spell to transform - to click your body into place. Progesterone, a potion to prevent the spread of that plague of acne, the curse of hair grown all wrong. These are slow 

All that remains is to watch as your sketches slowly match the mirror of yourself in your mind.