Metamorphosis

Content Warning: Gender Dysphoria

“O rivers, if you have divinity, destroy my shape by changing it.”— Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses’, Book I.

I sit before my vanity mirror in men’s boxers, cupping my small breasts. I don’t have the kind of body that can easily pass as male—I’m short, soft, and with a paunch I can’t hide. But gender dysphoria coils in my chest, and when it strikes, each breath thickens with the urge to transform.

That urge takes on the form of a wrasse, which swims in my sternum next to my heart. But today, after weeks of saving, I’m finally ready. On my desk, next to the mirror, rests everything I need to pass¹ for the first time—skin-coloured binding tape, areola guards, and a small silicone phallus the colour of my skin. The wrasse circles, quickening my heartbeat, as I place a guard over my areola and peel the tape backing.

It’s happening.

The tape pulls, drawing my tissue flat, ribs flaring under the pressure. I mould the softness like clay, and the wrasse sweeps its tail as I bind the other breast. But in the mirror, there is no tape; instead, I see a flat, masculine chest.

I hiss as my ribs push out sideways under the tape’s hold. Everything feels tight but painless, a steady pressure I let flow through me. Heat spreads through my shoulders, widening my frame as an invisible weight settles like a yoke. I wrap my arms around myself on instinct, palms pressing against the swell I can’t hold back. My sternum feels heavier, the wrasse moving in slow figure-eights inside.

Why would you want to be one of them?

I flinch. I’ve heard this voice before, though never this loud.

Caeneus² was given a man’s body and a spear, it sneers. Strength made him a killer. That’s what it means to be a man.

The wrasse steadies me. Caeneus was more than the spear. Strength is not the killing—it’s the living through what tries to break you.

The words calm me, but my arms stay tight. In Singapore, manhood starts with a shaved head, a number, and a rifle in your hands for two years once you turn eighteen. And outside of that, I know too well the harm men can do, and how they are tied to hurt. The thought presses heavier than the yoke on my now-broad shoulders.

And when the spear is handed to you?

I flex my now-steady hands. “That violence isn’t mine to carry. Even with the spear, I’ll still be me,” I answer firmly.

I push up from the desk, legs unsteady, and cross to the wardrobe. The full-length mirror stares back when I swing the door open. The wrasse and the venomous voice still circle each other inside me, but my focus drags downward.

My stomach tightens, the softness drawing in as muscle firms beneath the skin. The tension slides down my hips as my stance widens. Muscles knot and lengthen in my thighs and calves amidst groans and hisses. I steady myself against the wardrobe’s edge, watching in the glass as my hips taper and stance widens. ​​

Once my legs settle, I turn to the desk. The phallus waits and my hands hover, almost embarrassed, as though the mirror itself were watching too closely. Still, the wrasse urges me to pick it up. I slip the phallus into place, the boxers pulling snug around it. The weight drops low, sudden and strange, changing the hang of the cloth. My legs fumble, then find their rhythm as relief unfurls quietly in my chest.

Until…

So this is it? A bulge in your boxers? You think this makes you a man? What’s next—a claim over women? Pathetic. Iphis³ was transformed only so he could play husband.

The wrasse presses calmly against my sternum. Iphis asked only to live without disguise. So do you.

I swear, if that scathing voice had a body, I’d carve it from me like rot. The sensation climbs my throat now; my skin pulling taut and pressure pushing outward where an Adam’s apple forms. My voice slips into a low hum, cracking high then low—each break sharp but bearable. Meanwhile, I squeeze primer onto my fingers and spread it across my cheeks and forehead.

They’ll hear it! The voice panics. One word and they’ll know! You’ll be outed before you even finish speaking!

The wrasse stirs. A voice is not a trap, but a current. Let it carry you.

And now for the final part. With a sponge, I rub cool foundation across my face. The contour stick follows—dark pigment streaking my cheekbones, jaw, nose, and under my eyes. My features shift subtly beneath each blend from the sponge. With a brush, I settle skin-toned shadow on my lids. I darken my brows with the brow pencil, and I dust powder on my face to seal it all.

When I meet the mirror again, the face staring back is mine. My hair hasn’t changed at all, though. I lift a hand to my jaw, tracing the sharper line, half-expecting it to dissolve. But it holds, and for once, the reflection doesn’t argue back.

This is delusion, not transformation. How can you live with yourself? You’re nothing but a confused actress playing dress-up!

I slam my fists onto the desk with a guttural growl, the sound tearing from me before I can stop it. Panting in uneven bursts, I stumble back to the wardrobe—thrown off by the new weight of my body—and rummage through it for a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that fit my new frame. When I pull them on, the fabric clinging to my new skin, I realise my manhood isn’t proven by conquest, nor by a hunger to rule over women. It’s shaped by how I’ve lived, the love I can give, and by how I choose to carry this skin.

On my desk, I spot two thin, black hairclips. I slide them into my hair, and the venomous voice is gone. The wrasse settles—no longer circling, but resting. I wrap my arms around myself again and exhale, finally relieved. At last, I can breathe.
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₁“Passing” refers to being perceived by others as the gender one identifies with. In the case of trans men, this often involves practices like binding (flattening the chest using specialised cloth and tape) and packing (creating a bulge), which can help align the body’s outward appearance with one’s internal sense of self.
₂ In Metamorphoses, Caeneus was born as a woman named Caenis and was transformed into an invulnerable man by the god Poseidon after being sexually assaulted by him. Renowned for great strength, Caeneus became a formidable warrior and fought in the battle between the Lapiths (a group of legendary people) and the centaurs.
₃In Metamorphoses, Iphis is born female but raised as a boy to avoid her father’s wrath. Betrothed to the girl Ianthe, Iphis prays for deliverance and is transformed by the goddess Isis into a man, allowing the marriage to proceed.