A Boy Razed, A Girl Raised

I grew up with a subconscious hatred of everything that I was.

I hated the facial hair, the receding hairline, the thinning hair, and my voice.

I felt like an alien in my own body, trapped in a puppet that I had no idea I wanted out of.

A figure lost in the matrix, consumed by society’s demands for a boy and for men.

Keep the facial hair, it lets you look more mature.

Keep your hair short, it slims your face a lot.

Keep that behavior, it’s more masculine.

Kill the girl inside of you because it is an abomination unto humanity.

Drown your feminine side in a flood of testosterone and anger.

You will never be the girl you needed.

It wasn’t until I actually left home for good that I finally discovered who I am.

Now, I can consciously call my inner hatred of my body what it is: dysphoria.

I am changing my body because my body is not a permanent state of matter.

I am a river, changing my path and what I look like through my own will and force.

My chest isn’t flat anymore and I don’t have as much hair in places I didn’t want it.

My hair is coming back, thicker and healthier.

I’m finding it slightly harder to fit my hips into my pants at times.

I am a garden that has come back from the dead after several harsh winters.

A field of flowers in the irradiated wilderness of nuclear disaster.

The person in the mirror isn’t the alien in an uncomfortable meat suit,

The figure in the matrix without a map and no sense of direction.

I have flung myself into a new freedom that I never thought possible.

There’s parts that will always seem off for me, but the off parts aren’t what I see all the time in the mirror anymore.

I erased the facial hair, tearing it to the ground and drowning it beneath my feet.

I grew my hair, the waves cresting along my head like an ink-drowned field on a windy day.

I destroyed the behaviors, the toxins slowly purged from my body in hormonal antivenom.

I resurrected the girl, my personal phoenix emerging from the ashes of long burned boyhood.

I rescued my feminine side, scorching the flood of testosterone as she emerged from her well.

I am the girl I needed now, safe at last from the live burial in my subconscious.

And it’s all because of moving more into the love part of the love/hate relationship with my body.

I see me. I am me.

Let Me Tell You

They send me a message because, “God told them to”, and “they love me”.

Are we listening to the same God?

The message always reads something along the lines of, “You have been on my heart recently, and I want you to see the good God can do in your life, if you let Him”. There is often a sermon or Bible verse attached to a rambling message about my misdeeds; I wonder why they choose to use a sacred text to perpetuate hate. They call it compassion; I call it oppression.

I read the scripture. I listen to the sermon. Sometimes multiple times. I respond in as much kindness as possible. But I hate them.

I wonder at their accusations. Misled. Misguided. In need of prayer. The sins of my mother. Where was my father? I turned against Christ. Debauchery with the Devil.

Sign me up, Sinner, at least the Devil doesn’t mind getting kinky.

They all have strong opinions on my sex life. On my “struggle with same sex attraction”.

Why am I always a lesbian in this narrative? Where is my sexual fluidity? Has my gender taken the day off?

They never ask, but only assume. If they do ask, the questions route me back to a conversion story I want no part of. Different women are in my bed each night; I wonder where they’re finding all of these trans positive, sexually fluid women.

Sign me up, Sinner, sexual freedom is where it’s at.

They speak at me. I speak at them. No one listens. No one wants to change. I get angry. They pray. I snap. They tell me they don’t want to convert me. I quit responding; my heart has been scraped raw inside my chest. I think about what I want to actually tell them; they don’t deserve me. Or you. Or anyone.

I barely stop myself from responding.

Have you ever angry fucked after grown men with signs screamed obscenities at you simply for expressing affection? Because let me tell you, angry fucking in protest against men who’d rather see you dead is a hell of a rush.

Have you ever flipped off a car of young men after they screamed, “DYKE” out their window? They keep laughing and driving, but you and your partner watch for it to slow down, terrified they’ll turn around. Be ready to run. You encouraged them.

Have you ever fucked your way through years of internalized hate to self acceptance? Fucking is your rebellion, your resistance, and eventually your freedom. Sex is fucking beautiful when it’s you tearing down the cisheteropatriarchy.

Have you ever held your partner in front of unsupportive parents? Disgusting, sinful, selfish. How dare you force your lifestyle on them. The passive aggressive sneering. You’re carving out this space as people who are choosing to openly exist. This is a privilege. You will lose things. You already have.

Have you ever twined your fingers together with your partner’s? Only to quickly drop their hand when the looks, the words, the laughter, become too much? Have you ever kissed in protest? Homophobes hate wet tongues.

Have you ever been afraid of going to the bathroom? Which one do you use? You don’t really belong in either one. Your body has lost its sacredness. Peeing is your reclamation.

Have you ever seen the power of LGBTQIA2S+ existence in public? Felt the rage? The resistance? Rebellion? Lust? Desperation? Love? Let it swallow you.

Have you ever? Have you ever? Have you ever have you ever have you everhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyouever

Haveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyoueverhaveyou

Have you ever fucking screamed your soul out in the face of hate?

-Kain

Family In Mourning

Sometimes healing looks like mourning.

I can love you without accepting you.

My mother doesn’t blink as she says it; I stare back. These are words she believes. She trusts this is what God wants. Every thought and feeling whooshes from me before returning as the familiar slow-burn anger I always carry with me.

Her face is unreadable. Mine fights to match hers.

I need you to respect my name.

I need you to respect my pronouns.

I need you to respect who I am.

I want your support in my transition.

If you can’t accept me, you’ll lose me.

I need her to understand how much pain I am in, but I’m caged. I lash out. I hate her.

You’re the one who really mattered.

Accepting me is turning her back on God. Her tone flares fire then drops to ice again in heartbeats. How could I ask her to make that choice? I leave the table, and I leave her.

I’m selfish.

I’m making her choose between her child and her God, and she will always choose her God.

I need you to love me, not the idea of me.

Tears leak from my eyes while I repack my bag for the airport. My aunt wakes up to wish me safe travels. My mother acts like everything is okay. I resent her for it.

You lied. You told me you’d always love me. You can’t make love conditional now.

I cry in the airport over a soggy burrito that I want to purge with each bite. I hide behind blue lenses. The person in front of me does their best not to look at me as I sniffle.

I board my plane. I sit in the blue seat. I wish I was alone.

Sometimes healing looks like mourning.

Sometimes healing is mourning.

–Kain