Switching to my true reality inside

I wake inside a costume I never auditioned for.
The seams bite; the mirror snitches.
People say “she” and it lands like a nail.
My marrow keeps rehearsing a harder silhouette,
a blunt, right‑angled truth under all this wrong.
If there were a furnace to burn this version off me,
I’d step in without blinking —
better ash than this slow, mislabelled life.

This is not what I am.

I am no longer "Nureen".
I am Nero.
I go by he/him, with only those who can accept it.