I Do Not Belong Here

The Hate That I Feel

Their hate for me, became my hate for them.

The hate that I feel for those who hate me is real, it is based on logic and sensible self preservation. But it is still hate. It is poisoning me. I am paying for it with my time and energy. It is giving them too much, still.

Lead me unto liberation

Liberation from the hegemony of hate.

(Content note for use of gendered slurs)

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Men will caress an old whiskey with the kind of tenderness they never have for older women.

The Word

The world is made of words future, past, and here and now. Language is the glue that holds the mess together.

Love and Hate are made of words, —you can’t have one without the other. Thats not to say that hate is right, the past has tried in many ways to warn us that it isn’t.

But men will build their lives on it and argue round and round, “you’re too obtuse to see the truth…”‘ “That Hate is Love and Love is Hate…”

They would rather burn the world, than admit that they were wrong and guard their hate with guns and words as if it was their Mum.

When I was a child, I thought I was a girl. I was going to be just like my Mum when I grew up.

I harboured small dreams. To work in a small office, as something, like a typist, say, I could take important messages on the telephone, type important emails For some other more important woman, who thrived on stress and drama. Which I do not.

I would go home, happily each night to a small flat and a small cat and make small talk and sex with some man. And smile a small smile, often. Pleased, at my small lot.

But then one day they told me, I was supposed to be a boy. I was quite insistent they were wrong, they were quite adamant that they were not.

They had the cure or so they thought. And so I was cured like ham, or beef. Bled to death, eviscerated salted, sliced and arranged into attractive packaging.

But I spoiled, I became quickly un-cured.

There was no outrage or outcry, no protest or campaign, just a simple and enduring act of escape.

and there is no small job no small flat, or cat. No small talk or man. All of that died. Now, instead, I try to fit the broken parts together.

Content to just be, a woman, without question. Not much like my mum.

Content note, mention of child birth, and related interventions, rape and medical procedures. Some nsfw language.

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She writes and writes to calm the restless sea, and soothe her restless soul.

Like a pebble trying to resist a desert wind. The wind that erases and abrades whole mountain ranges down to dust.

She writes to leave a sun-bleached way marker poking up from a hollow in the desert floor that says; “I was here once, but am no more.”