1. i guess i began when i wrote my first word. it was likely my name, in barely a scribble on a page that had the letters in a connect-the-dot fashion.

2. writing has given me ability to connect dots. like how similar societal progression is to dna. first, it is replicated. then transcribed. then translated. then, it is destroyed. first, we had fire. which we shared and replicated for others to benefit from. then we had drawings on walls, based on stories told by the fireside. then we had intellectuals gather and people transcribed their conversations, and this has stood as the basis of government and law making. but the way it was written then isn't understood now, so we need classes to translate it into modern tongue. and soon, it will be destroyed.

3. i want to write a sci-fi.

Puberty hit me like a brick at age nine. I remember the day vividly. It sucked.

I had no clue what the hell a menstrual cycle was - I just remember suddenly bleeding, and then my mother having to sit me down to explain that this would be the norm for the next thirty to forty years of my life.

There’s an old joke in the hills - “Never trust something that bleeds for a week and doesn’t die.”

Gods, I felt like death that day. I was so utterly depressed. It felt like my entire childhood had suddenly just been ripped away by the horrors of cramps, hormones, and bleeding like a stuck pig every. single. month. My mother let me stay home from school for a day, just to adjust. Also because my stomach felt like that Alien movie.

I hear men bitch about how they deal with other men, war, work, shit they’ve mostly created themselves (again, other men) - and I’m sorry but if you haven’t had to bleed every month of your life, then fuck you. I was a happy-go-lucky kid playing on a swingset and then suddenly I was a monthly horror film.

And not only THAT but THEN I had to have the talk - again, at AGE NINE - about exactly WHY I bled, and all the wonderful risks / responsibilities that came with it. My mother at least was a sex positive soul - she tried to teach me that sex wasn’t evil, it was natural and you just “had to be careful”.

Careful. Yeah right.

If I sound bitter here it’s because not a single fucking boy I ever grew up with got the “reproductive responsibility” bullshit I had to deal with at AGE NINE, AGAIN - LIKE WTF - and they just ran amok like stupid idiots without a single care in the world. Gods, did I resent them. If I ever fall into a man-hating stupor you’ll have to excuse my bloodlust. Like, literally - if it weren’t for my raging hormones I would have signed up for lesbian land long ago. Like hell did I want to make my situation worse by dealing not only with the excrutiating pain of menses but also the utter degredation and body-wrecking experience that is nine months of hell followed by hard labor - which can also still kill you. Goody.

I hated knowing that just because I had to be born a girl this was my lot in life. I mean, it’s already shit knowing you’re gonna be treated as weaker, stupider, “nicer” (again - bloodlust anybody? really?) while being expected to stay home and do all the shitwork everyone takes for granted. Then there’s all the fun worry about getting attacked/knocked up pretty much every day you decide to go outside because again, men don’t deal with this shit so why would they care who they subject to more suffering? Meanwhile the boys get to go run and play in the hills and the dirt and the trucks, la la la. Fuckers.

Besides it’s natural for girls to have kids - that’s why we program them to love little dolls from an early age and play “house”, so they understand and adjust to their future role. I mean, it wouldn’t do for them to want anything else - they’re already suffering, best to just stay home. I used to watch my girl friends in grade school plan out their future dream homes and husbands and honestly wonder what the hell was wrong with them - how could they want this crappy life?? Especially more than one kid? Are you insane??

...

I’ve been told my programming was missed, somehow.

Like I said, puberty hit me like a brick at age nine. Maybe if I’d had a little more time to be innocent - a little more time to not utterly dread the future - my programming might have kicked in properly.

But otherwise - nah.

Tell some little boy his ass is gonna bleed every moon cycle for the rest of his life until he shits out a watermelon after hauling a keg belly for nine months, and tell me how well he adapts.

I don’t want to be a woman or a man.

I want to be me.

I collect Hot Wheels and comic books,

and was made fun of because only “boys like those”

which wasn’t true.

I was a girl.

I liked them.

I collect make-up.

books.

I wouldn’t want to be a man.

the unrealistic toxic traits they are judged for.

Money.

Power.

Physique.

Happy.

That’s what I want to be.

When we woke up on June 27th, I knew something was different about her. I didn’t want to say anything about it because I didn’t want her to be alarmed, though I’m sure she felt it already. I went to the kitchen and decided to make her breakfast before we watched the sunrise. Pancakes and bacon, her favorite.

We sat on our front porch swing, she laid in my arms and I held her close. We were silent as the sun rose, once it was up, I looked at her. Her eyes shining in the newly risen sunlight. I couldn’t help but say something now.

“Everytime I close my eyes at night, I’ll see this sunrise with you. When I open my eyes again, I’ll remember your emerald green eyes and soft auburn hair. No matter what I do, I’ll never forget the memory of you. And when you leave, you can take the stars and I’ll keep the moon ” I heard her softly whisper,

“I love you.” as I pulled her closer.

That night, there were no stars. Silently, I watched the moon rise, alone. But I’ll forever keep the stars in my heart.

hi. so i'm just going to ramble for a bit. the past year, with covid and other... tumultuous circumstances going on, i started deeply examining my identity and beliefs. (this is just a reflection of myself and my experiences, so i hope this doesn't offend anyone)

a little background: my parents raised me christian, and not just like go to church a few times a year. they were on the worship team, and my sisters and i would get up at 6:00 am every sunday so we could go to all four services that day. my parents and church taught me everything i knew about christianity: that we were all broken and totally depraved, that jesus died for our sins, and if we would accept his eternal gift of salvation, we would receive eternal life. and it made sense. the only things that bothered me was that i wasn't sure if i was saved and i was scared of hell.

last year, i started questioning, mainly due to my parent's response to covid and blm. it bothered me. it wasn't only this, though. there were many factors, including my mental health and lingering questions that no one seemed to be able to answer, and if they could, the answers didn't satisfy me.

so now i'm stuck. i'm not sure what the truth is anymore and i feel so lost. i wish the truth was easy to find, not full of contradictions and confusing passages. i still think god is real but something in me says that he isn't good. i still fear hell but i don't want to accept his "perfect" gift, because i can't reconcile christianity with all my questions.

the other thing i've been struggling with is identity. i was taught that god made adam and eve, and it was perfect. man and woman in perfect, holy harmony. the implications of this are that marriage can only be between a man and a woman, so homosexuality is a sin and it twists god's beautiful creation.

i believed this, but i'm not sure that i do anymore. it is too painful - for myself and the people i care about. because the problem is that i'm a girl who likes girls. and it is impossible for me to reconcile that with the bible. (also, please don't comment that "it was actually pedophilia they were talking about in the new testament". no it wasn't. god is obviously fine with child marriage and making jesus's mother, a fourteen/ thirteen year old girl, pregnant)

sorry for ranting. i just feel so lost and hopeless. when i look at christianity, i feel so alone, and i feel like a part of me is wrong and broken. and maybe it is. maybe i should accept that, but i don't know if i can. it hurts too much. maybe the shame and guilt is god calling out to me, calling me back, or maybe it's years of indoctrination and cruel words being thrown back in my face. i don't know.

Reading.

I plunge myself wholeheartedly into another world,

because I am so afraid of my own.

I read and I learn.

I learn about other people, but mostly,

I learn about myself.

Reading.

I plunge myself wholeheartedly into another heart,

because mine is so damaged.

I read and I cry,

I cry for lives that were never lost,

lives that were never found.

Reading.

I’ve learned of acceptance, of hate.

I’ve learned of failure and success.

I’ve learned that good guys don’t always win,

and sometimes there are no good guys at all,

or bad,

only gray, gray as the rainy sky.

Reading.

Sometimes I find myself in a character.

I find myself in a line on a page.

I find myself

and then I lose myself again.

But being lost isn’t so bad.

Because one day, I’ll read something,

and I’ll find myself again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Who am I without books?

Who am I without writing?

Who am I without words?

Nothing.

I’ve learned that the world is cruel,

but it’s also kind.

The word is brutal,

but it’s also gentle.

The world is depressing,

but also happy.

The world is full of contradictions,

and so are we,

the lost souls that dwell in it,

waiting to be found

by another story.

Reading.

Rick Riordan has many characters that permeate my mind.

Percy Jackson taught me that our disabilities can be our strengths.

Alex Fierro taught me that you can be anything,

and that gender is so confining.

Apollo taught me that even immortality has its downsides,

and that sometimes mortals are the lucky ones.

Reading.

I read, every day, burying my attention in pages:

fantasy, horror, psychological thriller, supernatural, dystopia,

even romance, if I’m in the mood.

Good writing isn’t about the format, or the characters,

or even the genre.

It’s about the emotion.

The raw scraped throat of a screaming earth.

The world is closer to a dystopia than we might ever suspect.

The world is closer to a utopia than we will ever know.

The world is yours to hold,

and mine to carry.

The world isn’t just black or white,

good or evil,

the world is a big fat mess of gray,

and that’s okay.

Because you can’t have janitors without

a little bit of shit in the hallway.

i wake up. there is a thick layer of glass on my skin. like a hollow seashell. like a bubble in the shape of riverbeds. like a leather jacket.

the end of dark tunnels lead to places i recognize. this one leads to the school hallway. i remember my locker passcode but the lock turns into a chain.

i remember the passcode because it is your birthday.

i know this hallway. it’s the one you walk through every friday at 1:15 in the afternoon. the same high heels echo the hallway. when i think about your heels my thigh burns. i wonder if i am merely an echo too.

for a moment i’m convinced that the numbers 115 mean something. but they only tell time. they don’t tell me anything.

i enter the classroom with a broken clock. time only exists as blue currents your eyes.

glass tightens around me.

the air vibrates into a bell. they sound like waves crashing shore.

i look down at my wristwatch. like i always do. because i don’t believe in bells. i always think that someday sooner or later they’ll be wrong. i find that i am not wearing a watch. so i look at my wrist instead.

there are scratches. they are linear like how time is supposed to be. they are the color of your lipstick stains. i am trying to remember the serial number on your maroon tube of lipstick.

the scratches don’t disappear. i remember a blade running through me and your fingertips tracing down my spine.

i do not know where i am. so i fall to darkness.

i wake up again from glass tightening around my skin. i think this is a punishment. because i had wanted you. because it shouldn’t hurt this much if this wasn’t to punish me.

i follow the dark tunnel. it is longer than i remembered. my memory is off. i push down the door handle and the door opens for me. i learned this the last time i was here.

the handle is rusted. but it does not stain my hands through the layer of glass.

i do not remember why i am here, nor how to leave. maybe i don’t want to leave.

i am in the classroom. there are 5 rows and 6 columns of tables. i know this because i have been here for three years. i know where i sit. it is in the corner, the one furthest to you.

in my head there are seashells made of porcelain.

i remember things.

the bell rings again in the same vibrations as last time. like a wave rippling through a calm surface.

i am beginning to think that it would end the same way. i hope it doesn’t. i hope it never ends.

the door opens.

for a moment i think it is you.

a mannequin enters the room. i am not afraid of the dead face. i am only scared that i have lost you forever.

i stand up in the seat. the ground gives away underneath me and it feels like stepping into the ocean.

i am still alive, floating in air.

i wish i had known how to float. i could’ve been alive. but the past is dead.

someone shows me the way out of the classroom. beach pebbles scatter the hallway floor. i am still floating.

once the door closes behind me i fall back to the ground. there is still glass underneath my feet but i cannot feel it. someone shows me a new hallway i have never seen and i think it is strange. i have been here for three years.

they lead me to a white room. there are no clocks here. the walls are lined with cabinets. one of them is empty. there is something covered in white sheets on a white table.

i recognize the outline but i pretend i don’t. i lift the sheets and it is not you. your skin is sewn on a dead body. i wish that was me. your face is pale blue. it is your favorite color. the color of clear waves and foamy tides. i do not question why i know that.

they tell me you are gone. i don’t believe them. you’re still here. in wisps of perfume stinging my lips. in the ghostly fingertips that trail across my cheek.

i am not afraid.

my fingertips slit through your skin. it is liquid. it holds shape in the starlight of my dreams. i think about drowning in your cold beauty.

there is a dagger on the table. a rose is tangled on the handle.

i think about doing it but i am afraid. there is something familiar in the air. it is thick with salt, as if i was in front of an ocean. i am afraid.

so i swallow the blade instead, handle and all.

i wake up in darkness again. i cannot bear it. i am losing you. i am losing me. but i know neither of these people. the water’s edge lifts up high. it is going to crash down any time.

i am running in dark tunnels. i am feeling. i am remembering.

i run into the lockers. but i do it on purpose. a crack forms in the glass. i smile. but i am not happy. i do not know why i am smiling. i throw myself against the lockers. again and again. like rumble fish.

the glass shatters. i fall to the ground. there are numbers that i recognize on the metal lockpiece. the classroom clock starts ticking. but it is too late.

it takes me a moment to process what is happening.

i am lying on the floor and you are on me, more beautiful that i remembered. your knees are bruising my hip. i recognize your perfume. it is suffocating me like your painted nails that i have once mistaken as rose thorns. your hands digging into my stomach. you are wearing a leather jacket. splatters come off really easily on that surface. i remember now. you and your metal chains.

your breath is rushed and uneven. you are sitting on my thigh. your heels press into my skin, kissing scars on to me. rose vines lift up the hem of my school uniform. my skin has been replaced by bruises of every color. i have been here one too many times. i like the scent of your perfume because it reminds me of heaven. you lean forward and i think of nothing. i think of nothing because my everything is next to me.

the tips of your hair are red. i do not understand. your favorite color is pale blue.

there is a dagger in your right hand and a chained locket in your left. you crush the metal with the fingertips that once held me hostage. i am starting to remember. but i am afraid of the past.

i have died in the past.

there is blood on the dagger. from the tip all the way to where the handle began. it is all red. i am confused. your favorite color is pale blue.

there is a cut on my chest. it is as deep as the dagger’s blade is long.

i think i understand, and i am very, very afraid.

it was never an ocean. i remember the white porcelain and the seashells embedded in bathroom tiles and how i dyed them red. i remember the tipped-over bottle and pills on the floor like pebbles. i remember drowning myself in the bathtub, lungs expanded and burst and soapy water spilling into veins on the night you sent me to exile. i remember wanting to be painted your favorite color.

i remember.

i like sunsets because they look like the bruises in my neck. i remember leather jackets from when the gold-lined zipper cut through me and your nails blooming roses on my skin wherever you touched. i remember the kisses of you stilettos heels tearing me open and how the heart-shaped locket necklace tightening around my neck was nothing but metal chains.

i never fixed the classroom clock because i had wish it would never enter the time when i had to break myself in front of you to know who i am.

i remember.

but it is too late.

i am not myself anymore. you cannot hurt me.

the dagger rips another petal-shaped scar on my chest. and another and another.

i am from darkness. you made me stay because you need the color you now draw from my body to paint your narrative.

you knew that i was alive. you and your acrylic nails, your high heels, your cold chains, and your leather jacket. i remember.

i remember the nights i begged you to be careful cutting yourself on my broken shards with a mouth full of blood. i remember how i’d rip open my own skin for it to be soft enough not to hurt your blades. i remember the stars in your eyes when you scratched your name into every chamber of my heart.

patterns of red splatters across the sleeve of your jacket.

you

smile.

i

break.

and we do it all over again.

- deathetix