*6 months later
THE RAVE IS PROM FOR THE FREE QUEER
‘And how many hearts has this dress broken?’
I’ve worn this gown as a woman for the heartbreaks of three men
and in turn to be broken by one
I wear it sometimes still:
She is comfortable at home
She is me too
Not in July or December,
but in November
and parts of August
They is a compromise
a placeholder for respect and mutual understanding
but a loss of privilege
and a label that comes with responsibility I do not fully understand yet
I wear the gown with a limpwrist
we jokingly say:
‘as a lady’
which one is the one you wear?
and which is the one that you’re born as?
I still don’t understand words that describe gender
I feel so disjointed from my becoming
I scour my closet to prove I was there all along;
what stitch was undeniably faggy,
does a memory of flamboyancy cling to any fabric?
can it be reborn?
me, in it?
I wear a lace leotard
it’s the same mesh lycra,
eyes on me,
but it’s not cold like the ice rink of my childhood,
and it’s a different time of day.
beards are fascinating
their absence can make the faggot in the same outfit unrecognizable
The ‘Cis’ slip off my expander clunky now
metal in teeth mirror my second social puberty