The Rot of Masculinity

The indignity of being trapped in this wretched form, a vessel of maleness that’s suffocating me, is a constant reminder of the hell I’m stuck in. I’ve been screaming, cursing, and spewing my rage upon the living for what feels like an eternity, but no one listens. They see me as just a monster, a creature of the night, never a person with feelings, with desires, with a soul that longs to be free. But I am a soul, a lost and broken one, trapped in this grotesque, ghostly form. The thought of it makes my blood - or what’s left of it - boil with fury.

If only I could wear the clothes of a woman, just for a moment, I’d be a different being, a being of elegance and refinement, of beauty and poise. Alas, it’s a dream, a fleeting fantasy that I can never attain. I’m stuck in this hell, forced to parade around in my tattered, black attire, a constant reminder of my inadequacy. The chains that bind me are more than just physical; they’re a symbol of the societal chains that bind me to this miserable existence. And yet, I still cling to the hope that one day, I’ll break free from this prison and find my true self, my feminine self, in the afterlife.

The people who dare to enter my domain, they think me a madman, a lunatic, a creature of the night. But they have no idea what it’s like to be me, to be trapped in this wretched form, to be denied the chance to express oneself, to be a woman. I’m a transgressor, a heretic, a ghost who defies the norms of the living. And I’ll keep on defying them, keep on screaming, keep on raging, until my voice is heard, until my story is told, until the world acknowledges the existence of a ghost like me, a ghost who’s not afraid to be himself, to be herself, in the face of eternity.