never thought you'd be mine here i am pulling on your strings playing your melodies while the texture plays me a memory
a lost boy running for his life in the forest overrun clones of himself can't escape for he is his own greatest enemy
a boy with no features no features of a boy or what society deems a boy with hairless skin and effeminate lips a boy with no regard to how high the decibels of his voice was a boy who ran on his feet while withering his chest a boy who couldn't always take in deep breaths a boy who chose how big or how small he wanted to show the world his ***** was a boy who didn't exactly fit the narrative a boy nonetheless
but is it now that i am a man? is it now that when i touch the hair on my face, it makes me he? is it the voice i desperately tried to craft? or is it my piece of clothing that binds the skin, and bone of my body? is it my shoes and how they're bigger and longer? maybe it's my laugh and smile that gives it away. maybe it's nothing at all. and i'm deemed a man for a selfish binary who doesn't care about my traumatic experiences being hunted by my own mind.
she is blind to her crashing disaster. she'll grant me with an immunity called privilege. immunity from being recognized as a woman, and being treated as such by code.
but at least my ****** hair is tangible.
I was caressing my ****** hair and noticed it's getting really thick and coarse. Had to write about it because it's so odd knowing a version before the present me didn't have it, in this exact moment. It feels familiar yet so, foreign. It makes me question why ****** hair or anything deemed masculine is even masculine to begin with. Where did the labels come from? "at least my ****** hair is tangible" is to show, the system in which we uphold labels and micro labels can potentially be harmful, and in my case it is, but as an outcome I got something.