My trans identity is a gift but it also hurts to see all that lives in me. I am so many things and the dead know me very well.

I can’t escape the history of my body. In my body, I am all the people who have passed. 

Don’t ask me their names, I call them mother, grandmother and child. 

They tell me to accept the person, who I am now. 

I stare at my large breasts, I want them to go.

I stare at my tattooed flesh, and remember all the warnings given to me when I was young and supple. 

I have been violated, ashamed, forgotten, scapegoated, betrayed and they ask me to accept myself. 

I put on my binder and my chest is tight. 

My fist sized heart beats with life and half hearted lies. 

I know my flesh. Its soft skin burning all those who hold it too close, I am no exception.  

The dead speak, they live in me, how can the living accept this easily.    

2 replies on “Binder”

btw I hope that didn’t sound like I was advocating for literal self-immolation…
and again… if I am inappropriate in anyway, just kick me in the head or ignore me…
Just know I think your art/writing/portrait(s) work is HOT. I’m honored to witness.


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