my razor pulls across my face. once following the grain, once across it, never close enough. and even if it could be the shadow returning just the same. one must imagine sisyphus shaving her face. a brief reprieve before the inevitable restoration of a fact: i might never pass; my life might only hold a single instance of passing as a woman, long before that was even something i (consciously) desired there’s always snow on the ground before the start of november, but none of us ever accounted for fitting a winter jacket under our costumes, and so all our dedication to deceiving strangers in their doorways was largely hidden under our parkas (left open on the warmer years) and ski-pants (on the colder years). not that that was ever a deterrence from dressing up. we still knew who we were beneath the layers. a robot. a scarecrow. ace frehley. i used to be satisfied with my beard’s thickness, how it hid my face. though rarely did i deliberately grow one. it was generally instigated by a depressive episode in my life. too depressed to take care of myself, catch an accidental glance of myself while washing my hands and notice ten days’ worth of growth on my face. summon enough energy to shave my neck up to my jawline to at least give the illusion this is something i’m doing on purpose. repeat this process until i can no longer stand the constant crumbs of past meals stuck to me or accidentally chewing on my upper lip’s disguise any time i try to eat or the surprise and confusion brewing inside me any time taking notice of my face is unavoidable, from which follows my inescapable questioning the mirror’s assurance: this is me. is this me. good lord is this me. good lord this is me. the surprisingly detailed fit of my mother’s dress. the first buds of chest hair blooming under my sister’s bathing suit top stuffed with tissues. my hair just barely long enough to be tied back into a small pony. something about this year’s costume feeling different than others. like it wasn’t a costume because i never wanted to look like this. because i resent my appearance. because my face no longer feels like it belongs to me. because if it were my choice i would choose something different. standing at the door, waiting with patient anticipation. a middle-aged woman praises each of our costumes as she drops funsize chocolate bars into our expectant pillow cases. she turns to me: and who are you supposed to be, little miss? cutting myself in the same places each time. and who are you supposed to be the mole on the underside of my jawline. who are you the unevenness of my upper lip supposed to be each time wondering if i’ll ever be able to do this without drawing blood little miss