I know you hate that I am not you. Sometimes I hate that I am not you, too. I hate these hands that are not yours, and therefore can never touch him. I hate these lips that are not yours, and therefore can never taste him. I hate this body that is not yours, not even a close proximity, and therefore can never hold him, command him, possess him. How worthless this body is, if it will never know those pleasures! I would gladly face the knife, the bullet, the suffocating circle of his hands if only I might trade this worthless vessel for yours. I would willingly embrace the malignancy slowly killing you if only I could stand before a mirror and see you staring back. You may watch from out my eyes, but this soft, fragile body can never be a true home to you; it hardly even is to me, and I’m it’s intended inhabitant. I want your body to be the one I wake in each morning, not mine, and I know you want the same. Hate me for it, if you need. I don’t mind. Hatred is one thing we can share across the boundary.