"loose in the loafers"

i never deleted this blog; I'm 21 now and my update is that gender actually isn't that hard and i have stopped giving a shit i am a man i am a dyke i am a trans i am a thing

all my followers are reblogging that post on how “if youre a trans man on t for longer than 5 years you will get uterine cancer” and 

long story short theres not enough information on long-term effects of hrt to definitively say “this is going to give you cancer” especially when theres a five year timer on it.

you will never be able to look back and pinpoint the single day you began to feel free. it might feel like it. it’s a nice thing to tell ourselves, that one day we will wake up and everything will hurt less, but this pain will not ever hurt less than this. listen to me. this feeling so heavy will follow you like your own shadow, will burrow itself down into the deepest corridor in your mind until the sun is shining at its brightest, your smile at its widest and your heart is soaring high. that is when the shadow emerges and handcuffs itself to your happiness. and you are nothing but a prisoner, kicking, screaming, crying. it is okay to cry sometimes. i whisper this to myself between sobs at five in the morning when i have school in three hours. i am brave but i am terrified. i will riot in the streets but inside i am small, paralyzed with fear. each color of our rainbow is a defeaning cry for help and yet we are still in danger. have we not been screaming loud enough? do they need us to scream louder? we will always have to fear for our lives. every new person we meet, every new person that knows, is a threat to our lives. each person could be the one person that takes it all away, and you never know who it could be. i feel as though there is a sign on my back that says “kick me,” scribbled by the school’s resident bully onto a half-sheet of notebook paper. i rip it off, but the permanent market has bled through my shirt and stains even my skin. even the marks of something so simple last in the longest of ways. this is eating dinner with your family around the tv with glee on the screen, when brittany and santana hold hands and you listen to a lecture about those lesbians. the red flag goes off: this is not a safe zone. you sit around a table at school debating your own rights and someone manages to squeeze every slur in this language into one awful sentence: this is not a safe zone. you interview for a job when the manager says, “you’re not one of those gays are you? I don’t have time to deal with all of those theatrics.” this is not a safe zone. there is a protocol for this, the one you have practiced time and time again, but you’re never quite sure when to have it ready. you never want to admit to yourself that the next person you meet could be the next reason that we riot. it is okay to cry.

AN OPEN LETTER TO BOYS LIKE ME