The headlines of precisely how
and their stated reasoning -
the exact euphemisms
for ableism and transmisia
and how it's all so necessary -
coalesce into a huge, sticky, amorphous blob
that seems impossible to fight.
I'm sorry.
I feel like a failure
for not being able to find a way
to keep everyone safe
from here in my bed.
I wish I was something more
than one small sick queer
trying to stick their body and mind
back together
with no tools.
Yet I think this is the best thing I can be
when so many people
want me to stop.
A chest binder is a kind of hug.
A hug is a kind of reassuring squeeze,
A promise of protection, warmth,
And a chest binder is a kind of protection, a kind of warmth.
I wear a hug and it protects me,
Keeps me safe,
Squeezes dysphoria into a tight embrace
Until it defrosts into something new, something calming,
Something warm.
I push the clear gel out of the bottle
and hold it up to the light as it sits in my hand
spreading out, almost but not quite losing its shape.
Gently, I use my thumb to divide it in two.
I slide half to my other palm,
leaving a glistening trail behind.
I put my hand to my shoulder and feel
the pressure of my palm through the gel
as I move my hand down my arm.
Reassuring. A gift from myself to myself.
This is my daily ritual, my promise to myself.
I have seen my pain, dissociation.
I have recognised it.
I will make my future better.
I close my eyes at the coolness on my skin
as everything unnecessary evaporates.
I want a relationship where
We spend our evenings cuddled on the sofa
Netflix and chilling and it's not a euphemism
Then head to bed where we press our bodies against each other in our pyjamas
Reassuring, telling each other through touch “I'm here, you're safe”
And kissing, before we drift off into sleep
Not going further because there is no further
Only other people's relationships in a dynamic that works for them
And our relationship, different from theirs but no less whole
A poem about my experience of asexuality, originally posted on Valentine's Day