I can't stop thinking about you. I don't think you know how crazy you really make me. I woke up thinking about your pulse humming against my nose, with my head tucked into your neck. I got out of bed thinking about how you layed in my lap and you let me play with your gorgeous auburn hair. I put on my lazy outfit knowing that you're going to wrap your hand around the tight fabric hugging my waist-
-tangent. I love the phrase hugging in the context of clothes. I'm sure you can tell as I've written about it before, but the mental image is one of my favorites. A comfortable shirt hugging over a soft body, well taken care of, both the shirt and the torso. Washed with fabric softeners and lotioned after a steamy shower. It's so intimate. I love the idea that clothes can interact with us this way, turning them into characters in our story. A shirt tugging over smooth biceps, a jacket suffocating in a moment of panic, an undershirt hugging the sculpted body underneath.
I brush my teeth thinking about how you held my jaw when we kissed. I rush out the door wondering what you were thinking as you layed on my couch and I wordlessly kissed down your spine. Wordless. That seems to be a theme with us. Last night was the first time we talked about any of it.
I remember when it started, when you began reciprocating. You were always a little touchy with me, to be frank you're a little touchy with everyone. You would play with the hem of my shirt and touch my shoulder. I fell for you but accepted it as a pipe dream because last year you were pretty vocal about being straight. Straight people ruin everything. Maybe you saw how I would look at you, against my better judgment. Maybe you carefully considered how much more I would hang on to our hugs. Whatever happened, you started flirting. Giggling and leaning over me, hugging me at any chance you could get.
It was nice. It is nice. Technically it hasn't changed, at least to the peanut gallery we've accumulated. That's my fault. It hasn't changed from an outside view, but to us... it's different. It can't just go back because we both know now. I mean, we knew before, but now it's been said. I feel the difference too, you hug me like you know what I taste like. Your arms lock around my torso like you know me better, holding me tighter than usual. I see your cheeks heat up when you catch me staring. Staring at your lips. It's hard to go back to how it was now that we've kissed. Our kiss makes my heart sink. I've done better, I promise. I want to try again. I want you to let me take the lead, let me hold you and lay you down as I kiss you softly. No tongue, not yet. All I can think about is if you'll let me kiss you again.
I picture your basement, where we are hanging out next weekend as per your request. It looks movie-ish in my brain, everything does I guess. I imagine a man cave with a big couch and hopefully some privacy. I'm not sure what you have in mind, but I pray that you'll let me touch you like we do in my room. You've made a religious man out of me. Look at that.
I've presented myself how I want to for all of highschool. I've done a lot of work to read as male and get all of my papers in order. My proper name, Micheal, on everything. I use the mens room and when I had gym I used the male locker room. I have fought my family and avoided the topic of gender and school and my name and I thought that maybe, this year, it would have paid off. I was wrong. I usually am. I had gotten misgendered- god I hate that word, stained with a history of trans use. A cis person would never use the word misgender in regards to themself- at the beginning of the school year, and I let it roll off my back. Though I look, sound, and have the name of a man, Im gay and pretty feminine. I also pride myself on my looks, which could lead to a more feminine presentation. I figured it would stop when I actually got into the year. But here I am, doing my best not to cry in a sophomore chemistry class.
There is this girl in my class. I don't know her name and I fear that it's too far into the year to ask. She's one of those people that knows everybody. She's extroverted and friendly, always making conversation and walking around the class. I like her enough. I have no drive to actually be friends, but I'll wave to her in the halls and I'll work with her on labs. Today, she helped me and another friend on an assignment. It was quick, absentminded. "Do the questions and then pass her the paper. Just pass it to her when you're done." Only a trained transexual ear would pick up on it. I know this because my cisgender friend, who was sitting next to her, didn't even bat an eye.
I've noticed a pattern in my life; people are scared to stick up for the transexual. I've stuck my neck out for my trans friends on multiple occasions, correcting names and pronouns and swatting down stupid comments. I stand up for people because i know how it feels. Someone thinks you're a girl and your mind goes blank, tears or anger or just exhaustion bubbling up in your body, your body that you can't stand in the first place. A sub calls out your deadname into an empty classroom, and while no one knows that the womanly name just called is the quiet boy sitting in the back, you know, and the silence suffocates you. Cis people don't understand the weight, I guess. Hands are reluctant to reach out to me because I'm a transexual that bites, or because I'm a transexual at all.
"Just give it to her when you're done." in the moment I froze, which is unlike me. I'm quick to anger, but I haven't been called her by anyone but family in months. After a few seconds I try and rebuttal, "her..?". It was the best I could come up with. I've had a lot of practice in having a cis reaction. I don't say "I use he/him", because that brands you as a woman in man's clothing instantly. I've been told to act confused or frustrated, as if it happens semi often and you find it humorous. I try to laugh about it, but deep down it makes my fingers tingle and my face heat up. But because god hates me and I'm detrimentally sick, my voice didn't come out as it usually does- trained and deep and confident - it came out as a painful squeak, too quiet in the bustling classroom for anyone to hear but me. I couldn't repeat myself. I had already waited a beat too long. Nothing to do now.
The worst thing any stealth transexual could do is make a big deal out of it. Cisgender people are mean and rude. Anything that doesn't involve them is stupid and delusional. Anyone who isn't mean is scared. Absolutely terrified of the power they think we hold. Even if I wanted to say "I'm not a girl, my name is Micheal. How long have you been thinking I'm a woman?" I don't even know her name. What am I going to say? Hey you? Like I'm a 65 year old man about to verbally abuse a minimum wage worker? The moment had passed anyway, and now I'm left to think about it.
Sitting there in the not-quite silence of the class, I picture my own face. Round and pale and full of acne. I thought my acne gave me a masculine quality, making me blend in more with the male population of my school. I also thought my sharp jawline and cheekbones made me unmistakably male, but as I stew in my anger it all melts away. All I'm left with is my large blue eyes. I know cis men have blue eyes, but I always wished mine were brown. I'm left with my button nose, which I always wanted to be stronger like my mothers. I'm left with my chest that I've stopped hiding and my height which I lie about. Every masculine aspect of myself feels like a delusion and every feminine aspect of me feels like the only thing anyone sees.
I sound out my name in my head, thinking of how the syllables click in my mouth. The way my tongue slides to form the name that I have spent years being proud of. It had been my first choice. The backstory is embarrassing, it always is, but I've never wanted to change it. I always figured it wasn't feminine and couldnt be misconstrued. It wasn't a common name for a trans man, so I thought it would help with being stealth. I did do something to help myself stand out though, I spell my name Micheal. I love saying my name is Micheal, spelled E A L. But in a moment like this, a moment where someone who I am on a (semi) first name basis with thinks I'm a woman, I wonder if my name is androgynous. Oh androgyny, I'm sorry how I've mistreated you. When I feel good- in a skimpy outfit and eyeliner, maybe about to see the man who makes me red- I stare in the mirror and I think, 'I look so androgynous'. When I feel hot I love looking like an inbetween. But when I'm feeling like shit, sitting on the bathroom floor late for school, I curse my androgyny. I want to smash my mirror and wear a mask to school. I wonder if my special spelling makes people question what I am. I think of different timelines where I chose something else. Mitchell maybe, or Victor. I think about another me who's named something like James. I want to ask him if he's doing better than me.
The bell rings and I'm the last to leave the class. My chemistry teacher tells me I did good work today. I wonder how he views me as I leave.
As much as I may bitch about being trans, stare at myself and all my curves, I do love it. I just wish transexuals were meaner. Don't let them walk all over you. No one should get stepped on, no matter what. Bite and scratch and hiss and fight for your comfort. You deserve it.
I haven't spoken to you in a while. Well, that's not entirely true. Every so often ill let my mind drone off to screaming at you. Then hitting you. Again. And again. Then leaving you on the road in the cold. I don't like thinking about it, I don't like thinking about you. I wish I could erase every memory of you from my mind. I know you'd say something about eternal sunshine of the spotless mind in response. Id punch you in your fucking face. I should've seen it sooner, how you began to look at me. Your punching bag. (do people fuck their punching bags? Ha ha.) the way your gaze hardened as you thought up the meanest thing you could say to me. I hate you, youre so fucking stupid, jesus christ. I let it happen, too. I took it on the chin because I loved you and I knew that no matter how many times you told me you hated me, you'd still hold me. You had me completely wrapped around your finger. The worst part is that you knew. You knew you could kick me like a puppy and I'd come back, crying and wagging my tail. So you did. You cheated on me, got with me and left me once you decided you were done, used me in any way you could and then dumped me when you remembered I was also a person. After the second time we broke up, went no contact and broke no contact. Ill never forget what you said to me. I got high and you pretended like you were too because you didn't know how to tell me it wasn't working. We went to your room. I layed on the ground to avoid the question about your bed. Looks uncomfortable down there. I'm not saying I didn't want it. I wanted it just like you did. So we did. Afterward you held me, like you actually gave a shit. I cried because that's just what I did with you, and you held me. I love you, but I can't be with you. I nodded and left. Sobbing and leaving through the back door. The man you once loved and cared for, hurriedly leaving like a disgusting secret. I still loved you, even after that. I got with you again because I needed you so bad. You made it so I felt like you were all I ever deserved. Like insults and sex and lies were love. So I got with you again and you dumped me on a family vacation. You dumped me at the dinner table. I went into the bathroom and scratched my thighs and my arms until they were red and bloody. It reminded me of the first time you dumped me, if you could even say that. I was sleeping at your house and I hadn't slept all night. Maybe my body knew it was coming. You woke up around 2am. We talked a while and eventually you brought up him. You always did. I cried and I asked you if you still had feelings for him. I asked even though you told me you hadn't in a while. I have sex with you micheal, you should know i love only you. You said yes. You couldn't spit out the words that you were thinking, so I had to break up with myself. After that you held me as I cried harder and harder. Two days later we got back together. After that point, you stopped caring. You ignored me when I cried, you never complimented me, you made fun of everything I liked, you made fun of me. And then it was on and off. On when you needed someone to talk to, someone to fuck, and off when you didnt. And I let you. It's hard not to look at myself and see the shell you've left me with. A faint ghost begging for compliments and some twisted form of love because it's all I know. I wish I could tell you this. I wish I could scream it at you until your eardrums pop. You act like you forget what you did to me, like you never knew in the first place. I wish I could tell everyone. I wish I could tell all your asshole friends I always hated that you're an abusive piece of shit. I know I can't. You've made it so I can't. I know you would deny it and I'd scream and cry and scratch my body as the people I care about walk to your side. I wish I could tell you to take down all the pictures of me that are still hung in your room. I wish I could tell you to stop writing and posting poetry that is so clearly about me that my friends are telling me about it. I wish i could fucking kill you. What the hell has wishing ever done.
I used to think I hated orange. I would groan and roll my eyes when someone pulled out a clementine. I wouldn't buy orange clothes and I'd be confused if orange was someone's first color choice. Then I met Liz. Liz has long, gorgeous, orange hair. She recently embraced her lovely natural curly hair, and it shines bright in the sun. Her orange hair brings out the pink in her cheeks and looks great with her pastel outfits. I didn't realize it when it was happening, but every time I'd hang out with Liz, I'd like orange a little bit more. Me and Liz saw Asteroid City in a town we had never seen before. The next day I found the orange pencils in my backpack more appealing. Me and Liz watched Juno at her house. Later, I found myself wearing a bright orange shirt that had been buried in my closet. With every inch we got closer, every deep dark secret shared, I fell in love with orange. I fell in love with her. Orange is warm, orange is soft, orange is growing your nails out together, orange is driving me home after rehearsal, orange is understanding when I can barely get up in the morning. Liz is the best friend I've ever had, and I could not be more thankful for her. She listens to me talk about my newest boycrush in the starbucks parking lot. She writes the sweetest messages in our joint notebook. She takes the most beautiful pictures of me when I'm not looking. Liz is talented, truly kind, funny, understanding and considerate. Liz is orange, and orange is beautiful.
She might hate this, because she gets a lot of shit for her hair. But I only mean this with love and companionship. I'm not good with words because of my autism, but I do what I can to make her feel as loved as I do.
I saw black country new road live last night. I went with a friend of mine who I'm not all too close with, but I've always wanted to be. You should've seen me when I got the text, ha ha. It's a long complicated story as to how I even got the ticket, but just know my ex (who i don't talk to) was originally going. She also introduced me to the band, so that combined with being pretty recently rejected...I'll just say I wasn't feeling great. Despite it all, I was still excited to hang out with my friend and see live music. The venue was pretty tight, with tall ceilings. Cool toned lights flooded the crowd. A sea of dudes with the same haircut. Cant say I'm surprised. During the opening set, a great band whose name I can't remember, I looked around at the crowd, spotting nodding heads and swaying bodies. I had a passing thought about how close I was standing to these people, but shoved it out of my brain. I looked to the man in front of me, swaying and holding his beer up to his shoulder. I noticed the curve of his forearm, the way his adams apple bobbed every time he took a swig, I noticed his shirt hugging over his shoulder blades. The second I could tear my eyes away from him, I felt guilty. It isn't unusual for me to feel terrible after looking at a man, but this time it really hit me. With all the lights and the music, a quiet thought floated around my brain, am I ashamed to be gay?
The singer's words rang out, 'light as a feather... stiff as a board', and I thought about the crushing guilt I feel whenever I have thoughts about men. I had a girlfriend for a while, it was a complicated situation, she transitioned a year into our relationship and at that point my sexuality didn't matter to me, why worry about sexuality? I'm gonna marry this girl. Say what you want about me, you can't deny how hard I love. I'll love until it kills me, it almost did. Story for another time. When we broke up, I wasn't really concerned with my sexuality, I just naturally only had crushes on men so I slid back into the gay label. Labels don't stress me out, it's the weight that comes with it that kills. Every crush I would have on a man made me feel like a monster. Every passing thought, wish, interaction. I felt like a creep. I would ask my friends if something I was doing was overstepping a boundary, and I would always be met with a no. Not that it eased my conscience at all.
It's confusing to think about this because I don't hide my sexuality at all, I talk about being gay daily. When I was younger I saw people complaining about others who make their sexuality a personality trait, and I decided I wanted that to be me. It wasn't a real problem and it made people mad. A 13 year old me was sold.
How can I be ashamed of my homosexuality if I flaunt it like I do? It's tricky, I know it is. It's different in practice. When I talk about wanting to fuck a celebrity, I know theres no option to pursue it. It lives purely in fantasy land. But, when I look at the crook of my classmate's neck, I know at any moment he could glance over at me and feel violated. I feel like if they were to find out they would, in cartoonish disney channel homophobia fashion, stand up and point at me, shout "GAY" and the whole class would laugh. Like a fucked up 5th grade nightmare.
It all just makes me wish I was a girl, plain and simple. A weird thought for a transman, I know. Girls are allowed to be boy obsessed. I would wish to be straight, but the way most straight men fawn over women isn't sweet or nice or respectful. So I wish to be a girl. Girls can have the thoughts that I have about men with no shame. I'm not supposed to love my friend's hand lingering on my back, or watch as my friend shakes out his long soft hair, fixing it with a freckled hand. I'm not supposed to notice that the man in front of me at this concert is gorgeous, and I'm not supposed to miss the sight when he moves places after spotting a friend. Maybe one day I'll see a man I like and not feel terrible for it.