Gender, in my own mind, is an art. It’s not static, it’s not definite, it has no single medium. There are those who say “this is not real art” just as there are those who say “that is not a real gender”. It’s something to bend and defy, it’s something to learn the laws of for the sole purpose of breaking them properly. You can fit one style or another, you can mix the two, you can switch between them, and you can deny them both and create something entirely your own, all of which is fine and acceptable. Just as I cannot deny I am an artist, I also cannot deny my gender. To look the part is to di
when I was younger
I used to chase boys
across the schoolyard
and carve their names into
the darkest depths of
my makeshift diaries;
I thought they were my
best kept secrets,
so carefully
tucked away under the
corners of my mattress
(or so I thought until my mother
asked me exactly who
jonathan was and why
my tongue tripped
over his name.)
as I entered
my ripe and pungent
teenage years full of angst
and peer pressure
I found myself falling
or rather flailing
madly into love,
which the first one is
always the messiest
because we’re still not
quite sure what love is
except that it makes your
chest feel tight and
sitting in