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Not in My Size. [tw: trans* issues]“Are you sure this is a good idea?” You voice is soft, hesitant. I know you’re unsure about it. I know you’re out of your comfort zone. I know. Thank you for doing it anyway. I lace my fingers through yours. “Nope, but can we try it anyway?” You squeeze my hand. We walk into the store.
Pale white mannequins look ridiculous to me, daunting to you, their size two bodies modeling sheer and garish. Judgment radiates from their headless faces. They call me fat. They call you something far worse. ‘Male’
We take our time, holding up this piece or that, mocking horror more frequent then honest consideration. I crack jokes, partly to ease the tightness around your lips. We don’t find anything. The selection is entirely too sheer, too formfitting in all the wrong places, too trendy. One of the other shoppers gives you a Look. I laugh (slightly too loud, so it will carry) and ask you to hold my bag, stepping in between you and her.
I am the Bent and the Broken Refrain.If she ever found a way to make peace with her religious self over the subject, she was going to get a tattoo.
It wasn’t some half formed idea at this point. It’d been growing for years. Years, and still going strong. She wanted smoke, or ash, or air, billowing in surreal illogical waves, waves and dancing flames and week-old vines, the whole elegant mess wrapping around her thigh, hip, waist, navel. She wanted the lines of her body to become a canvas, she wanted the ink to twine its way under her skin. She wanted gray ink— not black— because this wasn’t about stark lines. This was about graytone, about shadows, about profile mugshots, about the hundred little scars that form our fingerprints. She wanted it to be subtle. She didn’t it to be something that would even be visible to anyone else, unless you were undressing her. Unless she was letting her shields down, letting the venom rest, letting you in under her walls. Unless she was letting you run
Sand Running Dry.a constant undeniable fear
you insist, firm and still, that you will, will be the one to prove me this impossible thing a thing true and I beg
only time can prove you right, prove these ghosts smog and chloroform
but I am a broken hourglass and
I have no time to let tell
I think too much.I wonder if the amount that I feel for you
is unhealthy, for all the world it feels like
acid in my lungs and
this has only been a distance of
five days and
my mind is busy weaving elaborate webs of
I miss you.
I’ll be home tomorrow, and I fear
I’ll never let you go, or
that my toddler’s embrace will crush you beneath
every time coming home meant nothing
and now that I’ve found you
is this heartbeat warmth addicting?
the voice born of every infliction and crushing of self says
that it might be and
since it might be
I should flee it
for you, and for me
I am not able to run from this
I am not able to run from you
I run to you, and I wonder
is this healthystablesane and then
it doesn’t matter because
the plane will land
the taxi will drive off
will be warm and
Would That I Could.Would that I could have
of shit and sea spray
no face to see shadowed, buried in my mind, in my mirror
no voice echoing, clinging, scolding, expecting more, expecting at all
no warmth clotting, clinging, implying strengthening in my weakness, fight in my surrender, fire in my snow
no one to lean on
so I could fall, fall, fall
there is no safety here
Would that I could
have bloomed in a burst
blood and bile and
someone’s dying wish
would that I could
stand alone on my own two feet
the family that I make, I know won’t kill me
would that I could
that my DNA be
half daydreams and half horrorterrors
all of it mine.
please. Don't make me come home.Oh. I guess I’m dizzy from
holding my breath see I’m
expecting predicting anticipating
the day when she
sheds her fairy-tale gown
and shows her demon skin.
Missing you.I run hand against cheek and pretend that it’s yours
the hand or the cheek it doesn’t
matter because you know
my bed is too big and I woke up
curled along one side
my body marking the outline of an absence and
I miss you.
(we say it softly in the silence before dawn.
I taste sleep against your lips and
'you'll miss your taxi' you say.
i miss you.)
Textures and lies.I know the distinction between
what I see with my eyes,
and what I see with my mind.
I know what voices, sounds
are pulses through the air and what are
ripples in my thoughts.
That’s why I’m
As if the voices-songs-colours-textures are
any less powerful
for being cognitive.
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More