Brigid and her cockpit musings

it would be so awesome

I see clothes I like and I can just make them?? Can't find a blanket I like?? Make it!

“That’s extremely selfish of you have you considered that maybe you deserve to be abused?”

... and they are -- she is -- dirty. Her whole body is covered in fluids and soots and oils -- the beautiful viscera of her profession -- and her knuckles are littered with a light dusting of scars from machines and people who struggle with the divide between metal and flesh, but it is because of this, not in spite of it, that my lips long for her fingers.

For hers are the hands of a journeyman mechanic, but a master dyke, strong, calloused, and despite having had them inside me on a semi-regular basis, the only time I've ever felt her nails was when she slipped them into the seams of my armor plating to pry open my frame for maintainance.

She knows me in ways that would make poets seethe, having held me both inside and out, and one of these days I'll find a way to make her understand that I am simply not capable of finding her in a state -- that no such state exists -- where the first thing I think upon booting isn't just how badly I long for her touch.

When you see a woman you love, or a woman you've fucked with some regularity, maybe a friend you've longed over for ages -- or just even one that you saw at the bar and brought home for a rollick -- what living, breathing being struggling on this dying planet, could see herself dripping from the fingers of such a beautiful woman and think:

"No, they're dirty. I simply cannot kiss them."

I may not be flesh, but I will spend as pathetically, desperately little time here -- perhaps longer than her, but -- nothing in the grand schema of the universal matrix, and I will lick, I will suck, I will take into my throat the beauty of this world, and by every rule and every god, I will kiss her fingers clean if I have to,

Sorry but I got sick of scrolling through the notes on this on desktop and seeing all the red usernames marked by shinigami eyes reblogging this.

your identity, your dignity and your worth as a woman have absolutely nothing to do with how or why abusive people lash out at you. the insidious narrative that survivors should feel special on some level for having been worthy of their abuse is battered wife rhetoric. it's the perpetrator-system of violence grooming you to accept, and even shamefully yearn for, violence it always intended to inflict. and women are so often complicit in repeating the narrative back to each other. sometimes it's very well meaning and springs up out of the solidarity of shared experience, trying to reclaim power from situations where power was wielded against you, but sometimes it's lana del rey sadgirl coquette I need a man who'll slap me around so I know he cares. sometimes it's eating disorders and self harm. the twinning of femininity and female worthiness with suffering, associating the scars of misogynistic violence with acceptance of one's femininity by somebody who hates you, is profoundly unhealthy and profoundly unfair.

bottom line: trans women have never needed to be identifiable by their abusers at a glance to be subject to misogynistic violence. they have never even needed to be out. remember the early days of the internet when online culture was so outspokenly misogynistic as a baseline that most women just never disclosed their gender, never went on mic, never posted pictures? would anyone ever seriously argue that women weren't subject to misogynistic abuse online until they broke anonymity? and that being the case, would it ever ever seem appropriate to hear someone had been doxxed or sexually harassed for disclosing her gender and respond "heh, proves you really are a woman"?