Jaebeaniverse

Hi! This is a little blurb I wrote as a warm-up and I really like it. So, here. You can have it. I might continue it for fun, but the stuff I post here will be mostly unedited. So, don't hurt me. I'm thinking I might make it like Animorphs, but like ... with trans kids. And only four people. And only one guy.

“Hey! Are you coming to the party?”

I laughed as Dani draped an arm over my shoulders, coming up behind me. I turned to kiss their cheek and embraced them with the arm closest to them.

“What party?”

They scoffed. “Ppphhbf! Are you serious? You haven’t heard?”

I shook my head, my hair swishing over my shoulder. “Nuh-uh, baby, I’ve been too busy scooping ice cream out of a two-liter bucket and watching Bridget Jones’ Diary to talk to anyone.”

“Oh.” Dani frowned, their eyes softening as they looked me up and down. “Did you and your girlfriend…?”

“Oh, no, no, we’re fine.” I laugh loudly, throwing my head back as I look up at the evening sky. Colours of orange and pink had started mixing together, making me think of a strawberry daiquiri. It was the first drink I had ever bought for myself on my eighteenth birthday. “I’m just clinically depressed, don’t worry.”

Dani snorted. “Oh, god, same. Anyway, the party’s at Sophi’s place. It’s not really a party, so much as, like, three people eating a whole cake. Four, if you come. Anna will be there too.”

“Booze?”

“No booze.” Dani shook their head. “It’s a party for Sophi. He’s been sober for two months, and Anna bought a cake. It says, ‘Wow, you’re as dry as your cooch!’” We both burst out laughing, a grin spreading so far across my face, I felt it pulling at the muscles in my cheeks. I reveled in the way it hurt a little, like my face was doing something it wasn’t used to anymore. It was the fifth time this month that I had laughed so loud and so hard. Somehow, that knowledge made it a little easier to breathe.

I would have to mark that down in my journal.

Dani and I have been friends sinced I moved to Toronto. They were the first person I came out to, the first person who knew I was a woman. They were the first person in my adult life to make me feel safe, and they introduced me to other people who made me feel safe. Then, I met people that I could help feel the same way. Anna was the latter. She was a budding demigirl, straight out of the cisdom, and growing on me like a sister. Sophi, I met in college, in a program we both dropped out of due to transphobia from the other students, and it wasn’t getting addressed by the faculty. It was a story as old as time.

I am nonbinary. More specifically, I am aporagender. Not fluid, Not half and half, Not Woman Lite™.

I am a ball of fury sent from the heavens. I am the exposition of the lies legalities tell. I am the breath of changing winds, The gory description of blood on icy water.

My gender is the screams of unheard children, It’s the rainbow flag with a big red Q painted over it. It’s the fear you can’t explain when I say, they/them.

My gender is chaos, Brimming under the cover of a thousand years of so-called order. It’s the rage of those who didn’t say “Yes!” To the lies they’re made to eat, drink, and stand to as a confusing morning ritual.

My gender is fire And rain And things you don’t understand.

It’s the confusing array of questions you have when I tell you who I am, The look of dissatisfaction when you hear “I’m different.” It’s the friends I’ve lost, The way I mourn, And the family I’ve pushed away.

My gender is the constant battle against the monstrosity of society, The war against hatred and ignorance. It’s the look I give you when you claim to identify as an attack helicopter. The existential crisis I want to put you through for calling me “Ma'am.”

My queerness is fury, And fire, A wall of guilt formed of brimstone. It smells of sulfur And demon piss. The lies of the eternally saved.

I’ve been told I’m angry. I’m too emotional. I’m vocal, Outspoken, LOUDER THAN YOU WANT ME TO BE.

But not louder than is necessary, Because after all is said and done, After I’ve finished my tantrum And you’ve learned to shut your mouth in my presence, My body will remain your silent point.

A weapon to use against me.

Open my eyes to reality. Let me see what you see, Let me feel responsibility.

What it is to understand the grand design, To see beyond my cracked and open mind,

To hear the problems of my family And understand that we Are not meant to be, But willing to stand, to be and live, Together in harmony.

I want to cross the bridge and feel, To break this glass cage and heal, To walk free of this disassembled heart, And wonder what it is to fall apart.

I’m not empty, just broken. Cracked and repaired and cracked again, Not totally aware, but not complete in knowing that my mind will never be up to par again. It’s losing, Dying, Falling,

Not quite sure how to land on its feet, Not quite sure when it dropped its last beat, Finding new ways to breathe When every last attempt fails again.

Who am I?

I don’t know.

Where am I?

No one’s really sure.

What am I?

There is no answer for that.

I just fell down the hole in the rabbit’s hat, And I’m not sure how to get back. The path I took is covered in dirt, The tracks I left swept away in a melancholy symphony of nonsense and amorality.

I don’t know if I ever was what they wanted me to be, Or if they wanted me to be at all. My existence is confusion, Societal exclusion, Tripping over social cues, Crying when a string comes loose, When the one controlling me walks away with no interest in my well-being.

Who was I?

I don’t know.

Where was I?

No one can tell you.

What was I doing with my life before all this bullshit was dropped in my lap?

You put that there yourself.

Okay... But how do I get rid of it?

Hah!

How do I understand simple concepts, Like calculating the loves and lives and wonders of this world Without overloading my brain with unnecessary information and useless twists and turns?

How do I understand what they’re saying with their eyes, When their mouths are so loud?

How do I see into their wounds, Help them heal, Help them listen, Help them cry into the same useless void I use when I’m upset?

Wait, no. That’s not helpful.

How do I help them when I don’t know how to life-- I mean live

Where was I when my mother stole my strength, When my father disappeared, And my sister started believing in me?

Where was I when I was six years old, Embarrassed and cold, Frightened from the scolding I no doubt deserved, But didn’t understand?

Where was I when I was fifteen, Skipping school And crying on my keyboard when my friends didn’t come visit me… Because I was avoiding them?

Where was I when I became an adult, When I blamed my problems on my mother and my girlfriend and my locked door?

Where was I when I banished others from voicing their thoughts about me, When I locked away my own heart, My own brain, In a cupboard under the sink?

I tried to take it out later, but it had grown mould. Rotten and old, When I put it back it growled and moaned,

“FUCK YOU!”

Like an angry tiger who was chased into a hole by a tiny, insecure animal.

Hi, my name is Broken-- I mean Becky.

It’s not Becky, I just thought that was a clever line.

Not like this one: Unloved to twenty-one, Unkempt since then, Searching and finding nothing, Except in other people.

They’re whole, I’m not, Seems like a perfect match. Plot twist: it’s not, because they’re not

As broken and twisted as I am, But their tongues are kept clean, Inappropriate thoughts kept in the right places At the right times, They look better because they fit.

Like puzzle pieces, They put themselves together over the years. They are their own ages, While I’m five years younger.

How do I live?

I dunno.

Do you even care?

Probably, at some point, I did.

You apathetic piece of shit, Look up at what you did to me! Let me see reality! Let me understand what it is to be Alive and knowing, And feeling and loving, And …

Living.

I breathe without life, I speak without words, Without mind, Without any kind of…

I don’t know. Knowledge?

I’m so tired. I can’t think. Twenty-something years old and I can barely tie my own shoes.

I love through validation, Live through invitation, And screw myself with inspiration. Death and life are not real Because reality is a concept and it’s fucking me up.

Where was I at six?

Here.

Where was I at fifteen?

Here.

Where was I when I fucked up and pushed away everyone in my life with only a few dollars and a crappy excuse, and maybe a whiny bout of begging and signs of happiness deprivation?

Here.

In my head. In my head. In my head.

Zombie. Cranberries.

Tangent, my bad.

I don’t know what it’s like to be aware of everything in my life, But I’m… Fine.