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Literature Text
I look down every morning to see these two monsters protruding from my ribcage. As a child, they had not existed, but they grow on my body as I get taller, along with half of the human race. My lungs have grown two fleshy eyes that I am always aware of and never able to escape. Many find these attractive, desirable even. From the time I was told I had to harness them, I could feel a dark spot flare inside of me. It was something that elongated itself along my spine and kept growing until I felt it hit my pelvic wall. Bulges on my torso that are hard to hide and an unnecessary space between my legs. As if something else just had to belong there. But the dark spot keeps growing, until it erupts through my pores. The clothing I wear, the things I say, the pronouns used against me- all adding to this damaging aura of mine.
From the moment I was born, even before I took my first breath, before I could even blink my eyes, the doctor declared, "It's a girl!" and everything was decided for me. I am soiled and tainted by gender. It permeats the minds of those around me, and I grow with expectations surrounding me about motherhood, femininity, and pink. So much frilly pink lace that I could choke on it, but of course girls are taught to wear frilly pink lace dresses with tiaras for playtime, so I did. Then those same girls end up wearing frilly pink lace thongs with tequila for playtime, but I haven't gotten to that point.
Look at me, getting so hostile. Where was I? Oh yes, the breasts that shouldn't be. Every morning I wake up, roll out of bed, maybe scratch my ass or ruffle my hair, look down, and am shocked to see that I have breasts. Maybe you can imagine it, but I bet you can't. Unless you've been there perhaps. In that case, excuse me for assuming your gender identity, and please pardon the following explanation of how it feels to wake up every fucking day to a body that you don't belong to. A body that betrayed your very identity so vehemently that you cannot fathom even existing in it. A body that confuses you beyond recognition, to the point where you look in the mirror, saying, "Where did these breasts come from?" You ask that so earnestly, as if you never had breasts and they appeared overnight. And then you see the ace bandages on the dresser.
So you bind, and it helps a little, but at the end of the day you have to take the damn wraps off to reveal the honest fucking truth just one more time. See, the funny thing is, my mom always says I was "blessed with big breasts." See, the other funny thing is, boobs are fun. I like boobs of all shapes and sizes, just not on my body. See, the other, other funny thing is, even with the painful binding that leaves me short on breath, I can't pass. Not anywhere. People still call me by female pronouns. That leaves me even more breathless than the damn ace bandage.
From the moment I was born, even before I took my first breath, before I could even blink my eyes, the doctor declared, "It's a girl!" and everything was decided for me. I am soiled and tainted by gender. It permeats the minds of those around me, and I grow with expectations surrounding me about motherhood, femininity, and pink. So much frilly pink lace that I could choke on it, but of course girls are taught to wear frilly pink lace dresses with tiaras for playtime, so I did. Then those same girls end up wearing frilly pink lace thongs with tequila for playtime, but I haven't gotten to that point.
Look at me, getting so hostile. Where was I? Oh yes, the breasts that shouldn't be. Every morning I wake up, roll out of bed, maybe scratch my ass or ruffle my hair, look down, and am shocked to see that I have breasts. Maybe you can imagine it, but I bet you can't. Unless you've been there perhaps. In that case, excuse me for assuming your gender identity, and please pardon the following explanation of how it feels to wake up every fucking day to a body that you don't belong to. A body that betrayed your very identity so vehemently that you cannot fathom even existing in it. A body that confuses you beyond recognition, to the point where you look in the mirror, saying, "Where did these breasts come from?" You ask that so earnestly, as if you never had breasts and they appeared overnight. And then you see the ace bandages on the dresser.
So you bind, and it helps a little, but at the end of the day you have to take the damn wraps off to reveal the honest fucking truth just one more time. See, the funny thing is, my mom always says I was "blessed with big breasts." See, the other funny thing is, boobs are fun. I like boobs of all shapes and sizes, just not on my body. See, the other, other funny thing is, even with the painful binding that leaves me short on breath, I can't pass. Not anywhere. People still call me by female pronouns. That leaves me even more breathless than the damn ace bandage.
Literature
ftm
i don't know if it was intentional
but
you turned up the radio
while i was telling you about
chest binders
and this awesome forum that has
people just like me
why won't you listen to me
when i talk about this part of my life?
Literature
I'm More of A Man Than You.
You say that I'm a disease,
that I'm confused,
or that I'm looking for attention.
You call me a dyke,
a faggot, butch,
or even "it."
You tell me to accept that I'm a girl,
to get out of this "phase,"
and that I'm not who you knew.
You yell at me when I try to use the restroom,
when I'm walking down the street,
or when I go to school.
Is there a safe place for me?
I'm beginning to think not.
Not in school, at home, or in public.
I'd like to know why you hate me so much,
and why you tried to kill me.
You know, when you tried to hit me with your car.
Are you mad I didn't die?
Pissed I jumped out of the way?
If so, please tell me why.
I
Literature
transition
i.
i'm sitting in a doctor's office, and he wants to see my past and present
connected by a trail of bread crumbs - the story of my life
as a linear narrative.
but i can't reach back and pull forth an unbroken thread
that justifies my present -
i can't pick it all apart and reassemble it as it was.
yet he demands proof, and i'll give it to him.
i'll give it to him.
for the future, i'll do anything
(it's beyond simple longing, it's beyond hope - it's the only thing
that makes the next breath worth taking).
so i make my truth fit into his notebook,
i cut and paste the moments
until they fit together
and show a picture of my past
th
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So there are a lot- I repeat: A LOT- of really bad things here. So many assumptions about other people's assumptions and the such. For that, I apologize. I'm just starting a series of what it feels like to be a transman, and this one is dark and furious. But I've felt it, so I'm posting it. The emotions get lighter though, in the upcoming installations.
So, critiques? questions? comments?
So, critiques? questions? comments?
© 2012 - 2024 WesleyArrr
Comments7
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This reminds me so much of myself. I just got a real binder and it was great, but taking it off is very sad for me. I wish I could keep it on forever. And bandages hurt. Feels like no matter how much I am me, people cannot seem to get past my genitals.