I tell myself that it’s ok.
It doesn’t hurt that much. After all, it’s just an honest mistake. Pronouns are hard. People don’t know any better. It’s not their fault, not really. Though I don’t know whose fault it is then. I guess I’ll make it mine?
Anyway, it doesn’t hurt *that* much.
It can’t possibly hurt as much as I think it does, because if it did than I don’t know how I would keep going. And somehow, I always do.
It can’t possibly hurt as much as it feels like it does.
I tell myself I can take it.
Because I am strong. Because I have to. Because I have no choice. Because I will never live a life free from this pain.
And so, I tell myself I like it.
I can wear these scars like a badge of honour. I tell myself that by not making a big deal out of it, I am being brave. At the very least, I am being nice.
I tell myself this is the easy way.
This way, I’m the only one who gets hurt, who knows anything is wrong. And, after all, I can take it, right?
I tell myself a lot of things.
I am such a fucking liar.