Is this what you want?

You have become the protagonist of this anime!

Here's what I need you to do:

If you see a post with a "mature content" label, and it's 2026, DM me a link to the post.

Yes, that's really it.

I am hoping to collect several thousand such posts, so that I have a decent sized dataset. I do not care what the post is about; if it's labeled as "mature content", I want to add it to my dataset.

If you really need to talk about how guilty you are, how much you suck for being white, how you need to make more of an effort, go make your own post. Several Black trans women have used this post's tags and reblogs to speak about their own experiences being ignored in these spaces. When you fill this blog's reblogs and tags up with your "sorry for being white and sorry for ignoring them," you are covering up and speaking over their experiences in order to try and feel better about yourself. You are still prioritizing yourself in a conversation that is explicitly not about you.

I try not to overreact but being surrounded in a room of white trans girls who might carelessly take any given action out of annoyance or disinterest with me will kill me

All it takes is a few words, I know all too well how fragile these things are

Everyday the bits of home I managed to hold onto seeps out of me and more until I hear myself unable to speak my own language properly

I search a top to bottom for a face of melanin and see not one

A new white girl gets added to my inner circle and I sigh

I only manage to speak my language for laughs because I can't imagine being taken seriously in it thanks to the Internet

Being racist is always so much more difficult than calling it out

Begging to find someone like me used to get the chains around my neck pulled tighter

Now that those chains have fallen loose I find it's my options themselves that have become restricted

A Requiem for a Girl That Never Existed

The one who was obsessed with Anna and Elsa.

The one who used to sing Let It Go like no one was listening.

The one whose favorite color used to be purple.

The one who wanted to dress as a princess for Halloween.

The one who asked me if he could paint his nails too.

The one who wished we could wear pretty dresses.

The one who sat through The Magic School Bus with me.

The one I taught how to use a microscope.

The one I bought a tiny model of the solar system for because I wanted him to see how beautiful the universe was.

The one who used to watch Strange Aeons videos with me.

The one who came home from school, ten years old, and casually told me that he had trans friends.

The one who thought it was the coolest thing in the world that I painted my nails black.

The one who later said he didn't want to listen to Elton John because he didn't like "gay music."

The one who later told me I was breaking the rules.

The one who later told me I was disobeying God.

The one who would later call me "faggot".

The last time I spoke to him was six months ago.

"Tata," as is his nickname for me.

I called because I wanted one last chance to tell him that I loved him.

I told him, calmly, that he wasn't obligated to love me.

Love cannot be demanded.

But if he chose to walk the same path as the rest of our family—a path where my existence as a woman was something to be denied, corrected, or condemned—it was a path I could not walk beside him.

He answered:

"I'm not talking to you little brother to big brother. I'm talking to you man to man. You need to stop being a little bitch and call mom."

I told him that I couldn't.

He answered:

"Delusional. You'll never be my sister. You'll always be my older brother."

...

There are some people you lose to death.

There are others you lose while they're still alive.

People ask me sometimes why I don't just call.

Why I don't try again.

Why I don't go back.

The answer isn't that I don't miss them.

It's that I do.

I miss my little brother every day.

I miss the child who loved Frozen.

I miss the one who sang Let It Go without a trace of self-consciousness.

I miss the one who wanted to see the universe through a microscope.

I miss the one who asked if he could paint his nails too.

I miss the one who wished we could wear pretty dresses.

I miss the one who thought black nail polish was the coolest thing in the world.

I miss the one who told me, with complete innocence, that he had trans friends at school, as though there were nothing unusual about it.

And I remember.