i am learning life wants nothing from me, challenging and ripping up roots of self-criticism. who benefits from the illusion of my collateral? the feedback i receive most often is “i wish you’d stop being so hard on yourself”—hard being the erection of what needs to be loved—sharp on myself as in love cry. writing these little essays gets harder and harder—you’d think practice would allow for the opposite to be. feeling stuck in my i-don’t-knows, craving answers not considering confusion’s blessing.
i cried to my mom about my gender identity a couple days ago. she said she was happy to be having the conversation. it felt so cathartic—thinking through and finally acknowledging both my jealousy and discomfort of high femme looks, the resources it takes to present exactly as you are—playing witness to well-off Brooklyn dykes dressed head-to-toe in custom leather pieces—gagged by the latest rope i’m not—in, loved, or connected—enough to name. gaining weight, losing hair, growing limbs—sequences of transitions not controlled.
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