By Aishwarya Goel
It’s not one life—
They thought so too.
Is there something wrong
In being someone new?
He wore strength but craved to cry,
She had wings, yet feared to fly.
They were told to fit a frame,
Act the part, and hide the flame.
The voices rose
From protest and strife,
The noises roared
With every life.
He was forced to leave this place,
She stood silent, lost her grace.
No, not all flames burn bright with fame—
Some are dimmed and drowned in shame.
She could never say a “no,”
He spoke in shapes they’d never know.
He wished to sway, not stand up tall,
She knew she could, but feared the fall.
Strangers’ homes and unfamiliar skies,
Pushed to live behind disguise.
With questions buried, dreams estranged,
A thousand souls still seek to change.
She bore the weight of being “she,”
He wore a mask they called “he.”
Not just two who faced this fate—
Many bore the same old weight.
Some were men who wore soft grace,
Some were women with fire on their face.
Not every soul fits a printed mold—
Some shine brightest, breaking the hold.
It’s one brief life, not carved by rules.
No soul should fade to fit old tools.
Unchain the name, unclip the hue—
To simply be, and not act through.