this has been buzzing around in my head for a few weeks now,
and i started to think
"maybe it's not prose.
maybe poetry will work"
so let's give it a try, i suppose.
something happened recently that hasn't happened since I was about 15.
I had to buy all new bras because
I gained a cup size.
my modest B turned full-up C.
my 17-year-old self rejoiced,
and my 31-year-old self lamented.
above what this means about changes in my weight
and the steady downward march of my metabolism,
there is a gendered layer.
sometimes, I don't want any there at all.
I meet only fleeting dysphoria,
and I'm not concerned enough to change my body.
sometimes, it's still only right to go tits-out
(Rocky Horror comes to mind;
we are all called home from time to time).
I know I read woman.
if my chest doesn't give me away,
my voice will soon enough,
and my face probably already has.
I only ever pass as femme.
Part of what I have loved about this body
is that it provides such a supportive
structure for androgyny.
there's so much room to build on that.
Did I just become
I wore my binder to work today
for the first time.
No one bats an eyelash at my requests for "they,"
unless it is in shock that I didn't feel safe sooner.
I like to know where I am first.