XI.

I've always hated the number eleven. From a young age I'd dreaded that vile number, dreaded the birthday where it would become attached to me like a parasite for 365 days.

Turns out my fears weren't entirely unfounded. A self fulfilling prophecy? Maybe. Or perhaps 11 was merely planted in my brain as a warning, a cautionary tale of the year that would send me spiraling.

When you're a kid, hyperactivity is amusing. And when it comes in the form of a straight-a student reading young adult novels in his first grade classroom instead of paying attention, you might dismiss it as cute. Maybe you even see it as a good thing, a habit to be carefully cultivated and encouraged.

Sixth grade teachers find it much less amusing. Especially when you forget to turn in your work.

I did the work. Painstakingly filled out each and every multiple choice question, regurgitated answers to questions like a fucking machine. And spent countless nights, like my ancestors before me, crying over math problems at the kitchen table while my father tried and failed to offer aid.

I just forgot to turn it in. Left it in my color-coded binders to collect dust while my report card collected zeroes.

And while my parents tried their best, my memory of these years have been obscured by "you're better than this" and "it's not that hard" combined with intermittent screaming matches, unhealthy friendships, and a lingering feeling of disappointment like humid air clinging to your forehead, right at your hairline, where it feels impossible to wipe away.

When I was diagnosed with depression, anxiety, and ADHD, I shed my skin for the first time. Exposed the raw, fragile skin underneath, only half formed and easily split, easily severed.

For the first time, people began to see through my crumbling facade. I had become translucent, a waxy shell the only barrier between the outside world and my internal organs, still churning away despite my best efforts.

I thought I was done. I'd finally ascended out of that childhood innocence and into the apathy of adulthood, the suffering that forms the rite of passage to maturity.

Yeah. Not quite.

XIII.

I never had much love for the number 13 either. However, I have always been emboldened by claims of unluckiness. Black cats, or broken mirrors, for example. I'd actively seek them out, in order to challenge superstitions. To this day I'm not sure how I feel about my transition into my teenage years, but I do know that the age of 13 marked my transition in another kind of way.

I had begun to feel increasingly uncomfortable with my body, and with my name, and didn't yet know the vocabulary to describe the word "transgender." Until, of course, my crush of three years, announced that they were transgender.

I lost touch with them after that year, so I don't know how their journey is going. But I know that the introduction of that concept created something inside of me, a burning quest for answers. WHO AM I?

I still don't know. But at 13, I began a new journey of self discovery and shed my skin one more time, letting go of my paper-thin, scarred exoskeleton and growing a new shell, one that fit me much better. It's a shell that's still growing, still forming around me even now.

I'm not sure what I did with the skins I've shed over the years. Perhaps I have forgotten them in a box somewhere. Perhaps I flushed them down the toilet. Perhaps they were confiscated and thrown out, like the countless twisted paperclips that became weapons of self-destruction in my hands. Perhaps I have willed them into nonexistence, buried them in a now-forgotten plot of land for some distant future relative of mine to unearth as they dig through archives of faded photographs and distorted memories to find the truth between them. Perhaps they exist in millions of other who are just like I was, just searching for a skin that was a little more resistant to verbal abuse and out of synch DNA. And what happens when we all shed our skins? Well, what happens to a butterflies chrysalis after they emerge? It is left behind, decomposed and sent back into the bowels of the earth, and we ascend to a new journey, waiting until the time when we shed our skin for the last time, and leave something beautiful behind in our wake.

I take a sip of my drink and pause for a moment, considering the question.

My mind feels jumbled, the thoughts scattered. I feel a sense of frustration building inside of me, a sense that I'm not doing justice to the passion and intensity that I feel when I write.

"Poetry," my mouth finally stumbles, meeting her green eyes across the table.

"Tell me more." she answers interested.

"It's a way for me to capture the beauty of the world around me..." she looks away to the neighbor's table "...to take the ordinary and turn it into something unique."

"There's something magical about poetry, you know? It's like each word is a brushstroke, and the poem itself is a painting. And just like a painting, a good poem can transport you to another world entirely."

"Go on."

"It's about the emotions words evoke, the way they make you feel. A poem can capture the essence of a moment in time, or it can express a feeling that's so deep and profound that words alone could never do it justice."

I lean back in my wooden chair, a dreamy look in his eyes.

"I think poetry has the power to change the world, you know? To connect people on a level that's deeper than language or culture. It's like a universal language, one that speaks to the soul."

She nods in agreement, does she actually understand?

Maybe, she sees the beauty of poetry too.

He is staring over the top of his glasses with an inane curiosity and I am not sure what to say. Past experience is weighing heavy on my brain --- overthinking has commenced. I have told him I am a poet and now he wants the details. So I start.........I write poetry. He says "So cute, rhyming love poems?" I almost spit out my tequila. Um, no more like dark, sparsely worded poems that rarely rhyme. Poems that leave one asking questions or hating it. Why would you write something someone would hate? I look at him and am slowly coming to the conclusion that while there is a chemistry, there is no mental connection as I am coming up with a response. I look up and look past him. I tell him I write for me, not for an audience, not for the applause, not for the bound books. I write what my mind twists to explain the darkness within me and the world. I like the words that you rarely hear combined in new ways that maybe don't always make sense. He touches my hand and says "Have you sought help for this?" Sought help for what I ask? If you mean letting the dark out on the sidewalks covered in shadows and sunlight, the answer is no. I ask him if he wants to read one to get an idea of my writing. He makes this odd noise and fumbles with his phone. I look at the legs of tequila on the inside of my glass and know its time to run.

You stare at the man across from you. He is small, can't be much more than five feet. Unassuming hair, unassuming clothes. Not what you'd expect someone to wear on a first date.

But you know, from your online exchange, that this unassuming figure hides words that are both simple and profound. Their words are the reason you agreed to meet here, in a coffee shop just a few miles away from his house. Because you know that he's more than what he seems to be on the outside. And you're wondering what he looks like once you peel away the layers of clothing and flesh and take a look at the brain that sits rather uncomfortably on his spine.

He shifts awkwardly in his seat. The silence is becoming uncomfortable. You need to say something. Anything.

"So... what do you like to write?"

You can see him visibly relax.

He shrugs.

"I dunno. Urban fantasy... I also like to dabble in psychological horror."

You lean forward.

"Ooh, psychological horror... have to admit, I'm not sure I've read much of that."

He laughs.

"To be honest, me neither. I just like to write about the descent into madness, you know, people slowly losing their grip on reality, or being told by everyone around them that they're crazy when they're actually not..."

"So you write books about gaslighting?"

He laughs again.

"Sure. That's one way to put it."

"So, what're you working on right now?"

A conflicting burst of emotions plays across his face for just a moment, both excitement and fear at war until they fade back into a comfortable mask.

"Well..." he says. "It's a book that I've been working on in some capacity ever since I was a kid. It's been through a lot of rewrites and drafts at this point, and I'm trying to get it published."

"So? What's it about?"

"I mean, the plot is... a lot. It's a little hard to explain. But, um, basically what I'm trying to do is to create a statement on identity, relationships, and the myriad responses to trauma."

"Sounds good, but you gotta give me something more than that to work with."

He shrugs. He's beginning to look mildly uncomfortable.

"The main character is basically a version of me. It's bad, I know. But they've really become a symbol of who I used to be, rather than who I am now. It's made me realize that maybe I'm growing a little more than I thought I was."

"Does this character have a name?"

"Well, they have several. They're trans, and at the beginning of the book they're only just starting to realize that. Their deadname is Clementine, but their name is Cainen. Their names actually end up being pretty important symbols of his identity and the people around him. Oh, and also he's got an immortal parasite named Wright living in his head, so I guess that's a third name."

You can tell that he's starting to get excited, and you find yourself getting excited alongside him. His enthusiasm is infectious.

"An immortal parasite?"

"Oh, come on, I'm not gonna spoil the entire book for you. You'll have to read it when it's done."

"Alright, fine," you say, rolling your eyes. "Be that way."

A man comes over and asks if you want to order anything. You were so involved in the conversation that you forgot where you were.

Your tablemate apologizes profusely. You get the feeling he's used to apologizing far too often.

He orders a chai latte. You get something with a name that you realize, after saying it aloud, you can't pronounce. He laughs at you, but not maliciously, and launches into a story about how until the age of eight he pronounced "sneakers" as "snake-ers."

"We should have ordered when we came in," he says, interrupting his own story. "I'm sorry. I got so involved in talking that I forgot what we were doing. It's a nasty habit of mine."

You wave your hand.

"Don't worry about it." You don't say that you felt the same. For some reason, that makes you feel vulnerable. But you appreciate his vulnerability just the same. "So... if you can't tell me about your book, tell me about your writing."

He laughs, nervously.

"Well, I guess you could say I write about madness. But I also write as representation for the queer community. As a kid, I always wished I could find more queer characters outside of romance novels, because I never really liked them. And now, I get to create my own stories, rather than relying on someone else to write the characters that I want. So I just make human characters, characters with flaws, characters that fuck up. When it comes to my writing, my goal is generally to create as much emotional turmoil as possible. All of my favorite books have made me cry, you know? It means that my characters are... real, in a way. They live, and they die, and we cheer at their successes and cry at their losses. I stick these characters in fantasy worlds, but they could just as easily be your neighbor, or your brother, or your best friend's kid. It's like psychopaths: they could be anyone. Anywhere. And you get to watch as they go insane and then pull themselves back up again— or not. I want to make people question the world around them, because that's the only way we can make progress. When you read about a dystopian world and draw parallels to our modern society, that's when I've done my job. To me, that's what urban fantasy is about. Painting the horrors of the world in a fictional way so that it's easier to address, easier to manage."

Your coffee has grown cold.

For a moment you sit, stunned, mesmerized by the frantic movement of his hands and entranced by the frantic pace of his words.

"I got too excited again, didn't I?" he asks, hanging his head.

There is a long silence before you smile.

"No," you say. "No, not too excited at all."

MIND: Don’t do it.

ME: But he asked me about my writing which is essentially asking about ME, so…

MIND: He, just like your reader, does NOT need to know every single thing about you. You have this bad habit-- you tend to divulge way too much too soon. Retaining some mystery is a good thing, trust me.

ME: I’m an open book.

MIND: And not a very good one, honestly. Mediocre at best. Entirely, way too much, over-the-top hyperbole. Sloppy form. Typoes. Enough tired cliché to choke a horse. Anyone with literary chops that reads you winces. You try too hard.

ME: It's called being earnest.

MIND: This is you: ‘please clap’.

ME: Stop.

MIND: You stop.

ME: “I love to write about feelings. I mean, I really FEEL feelings deeply, so I write about them. Mostly deep things about deep feelings… Sometimes feelings just well up within me and I have to let them out in a poem. Ohh, and I love to write about nature, too. Nature is so beautiful and makes me feel free so yeah, I write about that also.”

MIND: Holy shit. You really are a real boner killer.

DATE: *fidgets intensely with phone*

MIND: Evasive maneuvers deployed *face palm*

DATE: “Shit. I’m so sorry, I gotta take this call…” *promptly slides out of booth*

MIND: Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a runner!

ME: Wait—no. You’re wrong, Mind.

MIND: You do realize there was no phone call, right?

Many minutes pass…

ME: He’s not coming back, is he?

MIND: Nope.

ME: I’m going to remain alone for the rest of my days, aren’t I?

MIND: Now dear, don’t you worry. There’s sure to be other guys out there who like girls that write plodding, banal rubbish about their feelings.

Also, on a completely unrelated note: let’s swing by the shelter to check out those cats for adoption.

“How did you know I write? It’s not something I‘ve shared.”

”It’s pretty obvious from your profile. Besides, anyone who speaks so deliberately, so articulately; who uses the vocabulary you use… that person must feel a need to write those words down for posterity, mustn’t they?” As she spoke a long, elegantly painted finger twisted itself around a hanging tendril of hair, whilst the faintest whisper of a smile haunted her otherwise stoid expression. “I simply adore a writer,” she cooed.

Stoid, that is, but for her eyes.

I sensed that we had reached a fulcrum in our conversation. That the beginnings of a salacious relationship teetered upon my reply. But was that what I really wanted from this woman I had just met? Sex? And all of the heavy lifting required afterwards?

She was obviously smart, and playfully beautiful, but mostly I was drawn into those famished eyes of hers which gazed hawkishly back into my own, and to that instinctive caution I felt; that at any moment she might slide over until she was close enough to take a bite from that tender muscle just above my collarbone, her lips and tongue massaging away the pain her teeth would inevitably cause to the fabric of my being.

Of course that is what I wanted, sex. It was why I was here, wasn’t it? But I was a middle-aged, long off the market man feeling his was through this strange, new, matriarchal world, so I selected my words carefully.

“I would hardly call myself a writer.” I spoke slowly, my thoughts tempered by both humility and caution. “What I do,“ I ventured, “is to post stories for other aspiring writers to read on a website in hopes of a few ‘likes’, a couple of reposts, and maybe, if I’m lucky, a generous comment or three? It is nothing glamorous.”

The pointed toe of a heeled pump found my boot under the table, resting itself against my foot, whether accident or signal who could say? But the toe stayed there, not pulling away. “So tell me, Huckleberry. What is it you write on this website that other aspiring writers ‘like’, and repost, and comment on?”

My posture literally sagged as my confidence waned. “Well, I’m partial to happy endings.”

The toe moved away from my boot. “So, you write… fairy tales?”

”Well, not exactly. But fiction.”

”Ewww! I abhor fiction.“ She picked up her expensive cocktail, downing it in a swallow, as I had only until recently hoped she might do to me. “Sorry, but I have to go let my dog out.”

”I understand.” It was disappointing, but not entirely unexpected.

”… and to think I was about to let your dog out.” Her nose curled up as she said it as from an unpleasant odor, and she made short, quick strides towards the door, leaving nothing but a shadowy wisp of shea butter on the air to remember her by.

Quicker than I could raise a finger for the waitress to bring the check a mousy brunette slipped herself into my date’s still-warm seat, an ice cold beer in either of her hands. She slid one of the across the table towards me. “I heard it all. Believe me, she wasn’t your type anyways. I, on the other hand, love a happy ending.”

Thankfully for this amateurish writer the night was still young, and another chapter that might be liked, reposted and commented upon waited to be written.