I Wander and I Lust

This is the closest thing to nudes you’ll ever see of me; my dysphoria is awful but Tumblr has driven me to this because fuck the tiddy ban.

So here’s a subtle glimpse of my ‘male-presenting nipples’ to see how quickly I get flagged. Fuck this shit.

Ain’t no binders in 19th century France - if you think trans man Enjolras can get by binding 24/7 with bandages and scraps of fabric I got news for you, buddy: not if he wants to keep even one rib in tact.

Bind safely. 

The guy actually handed over his phone, and my friend hung up, and scrolled through his contact list until he found the person he was looking for. He hit dial, and starts.

“Hello? Is this [Name’s] mom? Great! It’s very nice to talk to you. I’m a comedian in the middle of my standup routine, and your son is being very rude, [lists off some of the things her son said]…. hold on, can I get you to repeat that?”

He takes the phone away, puts it in speakerphone and holds it up to the mic.

“I said, I’m sorry my son is being such an asshole.”

Hufflepuffs with anger issues.

Gryffindors with anxiety and panic attacks.

Slytherins that are too emotional to be mean to anyone.

It wasn’t a proper nightmare. Proper nightmares and I are actually sort of friends, or at least familiar acquaintances. When we drive by each other, we lift our fingers off the wheel in a sort of wave. When we see each other’s names in the paper, our mouths do that shape of ‘I know that guy.’ When one of us drops something in the grocery store, the other one will lean over to pick it up first.

But this was just a crappy dream.

The house was on fire. Not my house. Not your house. Just the house, the house we all were in. There was one door, which I checked with the back of my hand, like they taught me in grade school. Do they still teach that? Probably. Fire stays the same. Hand check said: everything is fire. Visual check confirm: everything is fire. 

There was one window that didn’t open all the way. Good enough, though. I’m like an octopus, in both real life and a dream — if my beak can fit through the hole, so can the rest of me. I shoved everyone out through the hole.

But not you. Who is you? It was Not Me, and so it had to be you. You were sitting up on the second floor balcony in a ridiculously upholstered chair, legs crossed. You were staring at a book while everything around you burned. 

I came for you, I told you.

I can’t fit through that hole, you replied, still staring at the book.

You haven’t even tried, I said.

Have you even seen the hole? you said. Have you seen me?

Even in the dream I was running the options. I could work with physics. I could fix the hole. I couldn’t work with despair.

So you’re just going to give up? I demanded. 

You looked up from the book. Ash was rising from the ground around you — I don’t know if that’s how ash works in a house fire situation or if that’s just what my brain said should happen because of too many recreational bonfires — and it looked like you were underwater. 

You said, I never liked real life. Not like you. You’ve always liked real things.

You picked the book back up again.

I climbed through the hole and the house burned down and with it, you and your stories. 

It was the worst dream.

Studio Ghibli Illustrations - Created by Kevan Hom