Sitting in a doctor’s appointment
with a supposed medical “expert”
who knows less about hormones
and gender-affirming surgeries
than me, a trans person with no
post-secondary medical education.
But of course this is to be expected
in a society where my own identity
as someone who is transfeminine
is perceived as more controversial
than all the imprisoning ideologies
which enforce gendered falsehoods.
And so I wish we lived in a world
where “professionals” were humble
and could admit to their mistakes
but instead I am the one expected
to contribute the emotional labor
required to create positive change.
The devil doesn’t need an advocate
and every time you lend a voice to
legal council for the lord of darkness
you silence a chorus of angelic truth.
Perhaps you don’t even realize that
Satan has power without your favor
and while I may not be very religious
I understand the violence of erasure.
You claim that our trauma isn’t real
despite your own inexperience with
our realities, our struggles, our pain
so confident in your logic and reason.
You call on powers you can’t control
and you don’t understand that these
very same ideologies are responsible
for the anguish that we all experience.
Fuck all the limited assumptions and labels
that encourage you to view this body as male
because I am a bad ass transfeminine tomboy.
No, I am not your stereotypical trans princess
and I do not exist to meet your toxic standards
so confident in my femininity and expression.
But there is always a voice that whispers to me
and it claims that my feminine is not authentic
so overcome with internalized hatred and doubt.
So when I tell people to go and fuck themselves
for trying to pigeonhole me to false conventions
sometimes I wonder who needs to hear that most.
My mind is like a fierce torrent
of swirling emotion and worry.
A cascade of turbulent showers
awash with dread and anxiety.
And sometimes it’s troublesome
to catch a glimpse of the sunrise.
But when I am in your presence
your breath clears the dark skies.
Weird is as weird does
and weird does as weird feels
because weird feels wonderful.
So feel wonderful and be weird
because weird is not weird
and normal is not normal.
Weird is normal and normal is weird
so weird is beautiful and normal is crude
and to be normal is to be a prude.
Because maybe weird is who we are
and who we are is fabulous and deranged
so be weird, be abnormal, and be strange.
When you come to mind
it’s like a home invasion,
a trespass in my memories.
When you reach out to me
it’s like assault on my soul,
a reminder of the heartache.
When you hold me close
it’s like being held captive,
a prisoner of guilt and shame.
And a child should never
have to feel this hopeless
about someone they love.
I take all blame
on my own shoulders
even though I know
I am not alone.
I’ve never hated you.
You’ve carried me through this dangerous world,
despite the assumptions, the shame, and the violence.
And yet the world decided you were nothing if not male,
but they never asked you, in all your clarity and wisdom.
They could never understand that you transcend their vision,
that you are far more than their assumptions and stereotypes.
Because you are the vessel that carries my soul home,
towards that luminous beacon on those distant shores.
You are my salvation.
What is romance?
What is this deeper connection
that we define as somehow separate
from platonic care and affection?
How do we draw the lines
between the romantic and the sexual
and how they affect our relationships?
Romantic attraction. . .
Sexual attraction. . .
Platonic attraction. . .
Aesthetic attraction. . .
Sensual attraction. . .
What are the differences?
What are the similarities?
Theoretically I know the answers,
but how do I navigate my own feelings?
Maybe I am not meant to understand
this abstract concept called romance,
and maybe there’s nothing wrong with that.
Maybe I am not broken after all.