Men are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution has allowed men to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even trannies who "pass" look uncanny and unnatural to men. Your bone structure, man hands, and broad shoulders are a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk guy home with you, he'll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your diseased, infected axe wound that's filled with rotting flesh, dried cum, infection puss and old blood that you try to pass off as a sex organ.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it's going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight. That's thousands upon thousands of years of your ancestry calling out to you to change your ways, hoping you won't bring their legacy to a halt with your genetic dead-end of a philosophy you've been infected with.
Eventually it'll be too much to bear - you'll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck and plunge into the cold abyss, thinking this is your last hurrah and that people will care. Nobody will. Your parents will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They'll bury you with a headstone marked with your birth name, and every passerby for the rest of of eternity will know a man is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably male.
This is your fate. This is what you choose. There is no turning back.