(no subject)
She looks at me and laughs, and asks, "Why are you dressed like that? I thought you were a boy when I first saw you!" And I laugh too, because, after all, isn't it funny?
Isn't it funny?
And while I'm laughing I can feel my throat clench for that one moment, that one minute when I think Why did you stop thinking it?
Why did you stop?
I don't bother explaining to her that I know I look like a boy-that I've spent so much time perfecting that art of contact lenses (not my delicate feminine glasses) baseball cap (hides my feminine bone structure) boy's jeans and two shirts (mask what few curves I barely have). I don't think she would quite understand it if I did. I don't think I understand it.
I don't think I understand it.
I remember sitting in the middle of school waiting for the class to end, trying to breathe around the ace bandages on my chest. I could never find the balance between binding and breathing. Pain between my lungs and it almost felt good.
It almost felt good.
I started questioning myself, then, when I realized how much I loved it. Past something I did to mess with people's heads and conceptions of gender. And I never thought I was a boy, but, oh, to have a strong chest instead of a curved one, to have short hair and have it be natural.
Natural.
Natural, unnatural, perversion and delight. I just wanted something to be simple and it never was. I don't want them to laugh and tell me that they thought I was a boy. I never was one, never will be, and I want them to stop reminding me.
I want them to stop reminding me.