#pointless prose

Coming to terms with being transmasc though? That was an entirely different thing. My gender felt weird. It felt queer. But masculine? No. I had no connection with masculinity. I felt just as uncomfortable with masculinity as I did femininity.

Or so I told myself—and others occassionally, when I wanted to emphasize my gender's queerness, its otherness, its void-like ambiguity; when I wanted to make sure they didn't just swap out one half of the binary for the other.

Looking back, I can tell something wasn't sitting right, something was nagging at the peripheral of my self-understanding. I remember finding a lot of comfort in butchness at this time. I am so thankful for butches for that safety in exploration, and the gentle nudging into queer masculinity.

But it wasn't really until dear friend of mine, new to my nonbinary-ness, began swapping the more feminine-coded compliments and titles for distinctly masculine ones—it wasn't really until then that my transmasculinity took root to blossom in me.

And you can spare me the essay; I can read my own words. "I wanted to make sure they didn't just swap out one half of the binary for the other." Hear me when I say that I could feel it in my soul that they did not do that. I could tell—and I know I am not the only one who can—when "handsome" was said queerly.

all the pretty girls.

Nancy was fifteen and in love with girl that sat across from her in art class. Cordelia, her name was. They had the same gingerbread scented lotion, but it smelled better on her. Cordelia was an artist, brilliant at painting and sketching and how in the name of God did she braid her hair so beautifully. Maybe it was only beautiful because it was on her.

Nancy was not an artist, but that did not stop the doodles that flowed from her five dollar fountain pen. Cordelia in that damned violet sundress she wore to school yesterday. Cordelia as Ophelia in their school’s production of Hamlet (how was she so good at everything?), Cordelia with her hair down and Cordelia with that braid that Nancy could never quite get right, and sometimes just her name, Cordelia.

He picked the name Albert because it meant “bright,” just like his teacher always said he was, which in the mind of a seven-year-old is a completely logical reason for a choice of name. Albert was a character he built, someone he wanted to be. Never in his wildest dreams did he think that would ever happen.

He decided he wasn’t a girl a few months before he chose the name. He had told only one person, his best friend, a pretty red-haired girl by the name of Alma. “Albert,” she had said, allowing the syllables to roll off her tongue, “I like it.” And so she called him Albert from then on.

Out of Her Sun.

Exactly seventeen multicolored flowers led Iris to where her beloved sat on an ivory throne beside her husband. Flowers grew wherever her feet touched the ground, even in the fiery pit of the Underworld.

“King Hades,” she greeted, curtsying briskly, “and Queen Persephone. It’s been some time, has it not?”

Persephone smiled and Iris felt her heart explode into a thousand tiny lovelorn pieces. “Since I last visited Olympus, I believe.”

“You should come around more, your mother misses you dearly.” When you’re not around I feel like I’m suffocating remained unsaid.

It was then that Hades screamed. “We do not speak of my sister down here, in case you have forgotten.” His face matched the surrounding lava rocks in color. Persephone placed a dainty hand on his forearm and he took and shaky breath before closing his eyes and slumping in his throne.

“We should go,” said Persephone, standing up and adjusting her skirts. She was tall and and shapely and beautiful, everything that Iris wasn’t. Her long maple hair contrasted greatly to Iris’ short blonde curls, her smooth dark skin had looked like the night sky when placed against Iris’ pale freckles.

They walked to Persephone’s rooms in a silence that nearly strangled Iris. The trail of flowers that followed Persephone left her breathless, and she wanted nothing more than to pick them, weave them into a crown, and wear them forever. “What’re you thinking about?” Persephone asked. It was a sad attempt at conversation and they both knew it, but Iris answered anyway.

“Us.” It was a simple answer, yet Persephone stopped and turned to look at Iris. There was a storm in her eyes, a storm filled with thunder and lightning that Iris longed to avoid, but she didn’t look away. Persephone sighed and a look of resignation played upon her face when she realized Iris wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t repeal her statement.

“We were over a long time ago, Iris. I have a husband, three children-”

“Only one of your children is actually Hades’.” The spite in her voice angered Persephone, but she did not say anything, merely continued.

“-and a kingdom to run. I haven’t time for a lover.” She turned her back and continued walking, leaving Iris to run to catch up. Her flowers were an angry red - carnations, if Iris remembered correctly.

As Iris followed behind her, memories flashed through her mind in bits of bright color: Persephone’s lips against hers. Running through a field of flowers as more sprung up. Demeter’s anger. A hand tracing patterns on her inner thigh. A rose-tinted hyacinth. ἀπὸ τοῦ ἡλίου μετάστηθι. Stand a little out of my sun.

That is what Persephone had told her on her wedding day. “You need to stand a little out of my sun.” But what she said and what she meant were two different things. What she said: This is my day of radiance, please stand back and let me enjoy it. What she meant: Go away, stay away. I don’t love you anymore.

And later that night there were hands on her body as if nothing had happened. When one gets married, one is supposed to spend the night with their spouse. But oh, Persephone didn’t. She pressed Iris down on her bed and touched and kissed her until the only thing she knew how to say was Persephone’s name. That time was different, however. There was a sense of finality to it, as if Persephone was trying to apologize for leaving her while also firmly stating that it had to be done.

Without thinking, Iris raised her hand and placed it in Persephone’s hair. The other goddess paused for a second and began to turn around, but then stopped and continued walking, Iris’ hand falling limp behind her. “Don’t ignore me,” Iris said, and when Persephone didn’t answer she said it again. “Don’t ignore me, Persephone.”

“You must understand that I’ve no choice, my dear,” Persephone responded, turning to face Iris. “It’s not like I want to.”

My dear. The words cut into Iris like the thorns of a thousand roses. “Why? Am I the cloud in front of your sun? I love you, Persephone, and there was a time when I thought you loved me too.” Iris' voice was raised now. “You should know that I’d never do anything to hurt you, that you are my sun and my moon and my stars. I have to stand a little out of the way anyway. I don’t want to blind myself in your granduer.”

Vines of morning glory were climbing Persephone’s legs, an involuntary defense against Iris’ words. Persephone merely watched her for quite some time, examining her face and breathing deeply. Finally, when she spoke, it was not something Iris wished to hear. “You worship me. It isn’t good for you.”

Iris surged forward and pulled her close and buried her face in her hair. Persephone did not struggle, and when Iris reached up to stroke her face she let her. “I love you,” Iris murmured quietly, over and over and over again, until the words had lost their meaning on her lips.

The kiss was soft at first, gentle. Persephone’s morning glories were spreading to Iris, tangling her legs and slowly climbing both of them, binding them together. Though the twisted hall of the Underworld was definitely not the best place for this, it occurred to neither women to move.

Persephone had always been a fierce kisser, all teeth and wisps of peppermint on her tongue. But Iris was slow, passionate. She wanted everything and she took what she could, regardless of what Persephone offered. It reminded Iris of their first time together, back on Olympus all those years ago. At that thought she pushed Persephone away.

“I can’t do this, not like this,” she said, breathless. Persephone’s hair was ruffled and her face was red, a sight Iris had longed to see for years.

“And why is that?” Persephone asked.

“I do not wish to burn myself, not again.” She looked down and hoped Persephone would walk away, leave her in the dust, leave her to cry by herself before crawling back to Olympus like a wounded animal.

“I will leave you, then,” and she left swiftly, tearing the vines of morning glory behind her. Iris let out a sob when she felt the last vine break, but Persephone did not look back. She was out of her sun, the cloud that runs back to where she belongs after her final moment of fame.

I am a teen writer - I am a writer in my twenties -I am in my thirties - I’d rather not tell

I am female - I am male - I am nonbinary - other - I’d rather not tell 

I write mainly in the English language - I write in a language other than English - my native language is English - English is a common language in my country - English is a relatively common language in my country - my native language is not English and I’m not really fluent in English - my native language isn’t English but I am fluent in English

I’m from: Asia - Europe - North America - South America - Australia - Africa - Antarctica 

I write: mystery/crime - horror - YA - dystopian - fantasy - science fiction - romance - drama - historical fiction - non-fiction - undecided - other 

I have a WiP of my own: yes - no

If yes, what’s it called: Chasing Indigo! I also have a ton of plans, so be sure to be on the lookout.

“According to myth, when Astraea returns to Earth one day, she will once again bring the utopia that was during the Golden Age, bringing an end to human suffering.”