ANTHRODYNIA

Something about looking at. People advertising AFAB housing (or well, HEARING about people doing that) it’s like. How. Do. People. Trust that??? How do people trust the idea of AFAB housing??? That feels like. Trafficking. That feels like an easy pathway TO trafficking. That feels like people looking for specific genitals to sell at a price they set, I don’t trust that shit.

And like I know they usually advertise it as “safe” (transphobic and suggesting trans women are rapists but okay). And that feels like the type of shit someone looking to manipulate a group of people would do. I’d rather live with like. People in general, no stupid fucking labels. Like how the fuck are people gonna know if someone coming in is that sex at birth anyway? Checking somebody at the door feels like sexual assault.

“I need to know what you were designated at birth because we have a lot of traumatized people here and we don’t want people socialized as male here” to me translates as a bunch of bullshit to justify excluding trans women because you and the people who you are hoping to rope into housing with you view trans women as confused/cosplaying men when they’re women who are targeted by the government for extermination.

In what world should we be offering that kind of housing while using supposedly queer-friendly language? If you WANT to ensure others’ safety, I’d sooner trust someone saying they’ll do background checks on people coming to room with them than someone saying that “only people assigned female at birth can stay here”.

Rotating it, slowly, slightly, barbs, lemons, all of them at the same time. The same axis. Turning it to death, burning it to death, sideways axis.

A family of 5 is born and dies in the house they set alight to appease some old god that doesn’t even know their name. A stupid reason to die, a stupid foolish reason, twelve different burning effigies and none of them are beautiful.

You’re going to find them in a town in a house just by the lake and they’re going to be singed ashes all of them scoring their ages into the floor with their fingernails.

All of them dying their pajamas red with blood.

I keep finding seeds in their eyes and I don’t know which plant they’ll turn into.

Like twelve different ones.

It’s all going to singe back down into ashes.