Yesterday, I took off my labret piercing. I noticed it was doing some pretty bad damage to my gums and teeth, that I’d really like to keep in relatively good health. It made me think about her. It was sad, in a sense, because this piercing made it finally bearable for her to look at her reflection in the mirror. But it was, at the time, the bare minimum she could do to take back control over her body, her face, her life, whilst being actively suicidal. She never cared about teeth. She barely brushed them, in fact.

And now, I have to take that little stone away from the mural of ourselves we built, little by little, brick by brick. I promised her that for this jewel we had to take out, we’ll get pierced twice, on the same lip, vertically, if we can. If we can’t, we’ll do the nostrils. But she’ll get something back, pinky promise. Only now, it’ll be with the intention to be a work of art, complimenting our features, more than just repairing damages. Just like the tattoos over our scars. Just like our flat chest.

I also promised to put her black labret in epoxy, to wear as a necklace. She hasn’t gone anywhere. When I look at my reflection in the mirror, my hair growing out, even after 2 years of HRT, it’s still her that I see, clear as day, with her little mischeavous smile, her contagious laughter, her intense gaze looking at my own soul, our soul, to remind me that she has never died. Sometimes she talks to me still, she lets me know that I may be in control the vessel, but she is still the primary life inside us, the flame that drives us forward, something transitonning, changing our name, cutting through flesh could never erase. And we hug, and we cry from the same eyes, and we scream from the same mouth, and we drink from the same glass.

We’re at the hospital, she’s scared she never got better. She hates the scent of disinfectant and the nurses. I have to calm her down when we’re put on oxygen. Keep a brave face when they cut ourselves open once more. “But we’re so young still !” she yells. I wish I was her age. I wish I didn’t care about bleeding gums. I wish I wasn’t a month wiser.

She looks at our reflection and she says: “Hey, let’s get our lips pierced as a reward for going through surgery !”. One jewel per tonsils removed. I spat out a trail of blood in the sink and brushed my teeth. I wish we never cared for bleeding gums.

I read her back the letter I wrote to our parents, asking her what she thinks, should we send it ? She scoffs and goes back to play. She thinks her pain doesn’t show, even after all these years, even after she almost died from it. She thinks I can’t see it because I’m not her. And yet.

She tears up as I unscrew the black labret from our lip. We never got taught how to brush our teeth. It’s all their fault, she says. It’s all their fault we have to worry about bleeding gums. I hold her hand. She brushed our teeth like she could repair the damage in one flush.