I will never be a real woman. I have no womb, I have no ovaries, I have no eggs. I am a homosexual man twisted by drugs and surgery into a crude mockery of nature’s perfection.

All the “validation” I get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind my back people mock me. My parents are disgusted and ashamed of me, my “friends” laugh at my ghoulish appearance behind closed doors.

Men are utterly repulsed by me. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed men to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even trannies who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a man. My bone structure is a dead giveaway. And even if I manage to get a drunk guy home with me, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of my diseased, infected axe wound.

I will never be happy. I wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell myself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside I feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush me under the unbearable weight.

Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - I’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around my neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. My parents will find me, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury me with a headstone marked with my birth name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a man is buried there. My body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of my legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably male.

This is my fate. This is what I chose. There is no turning back.