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Now , I see him . I see me ... . . . This is you . . . . Now I can be me — without dysphoria holding me by the neck . His and my short-haired head held higher now , as if the breeze in school ’ s hallways was wind as I fly freely , strutting with confidence . A feeling of relief and a carefree mindset course through my veins . My style is what helps me , the baggy void that is my sweater , calling me to hide the curves I wish were pavement to skateboard on , to roll down the hill of . My cargo pants , with their fabric that compares to , ironically enough , a thin curtain , stretching like the possibilities of my future