There’s a certain liberation to realizing you are someones worst fear.

Its doubly enjoyable when that someone is a loved one

 

embrace their nightmare

embrace the boogeyman of your trans self

that self they want to be a perfect porcelain doll

instead you are perched upon the mantle with a knife hidden in your skirts

That self is the patient strapped to a metal chair in the asylum

faces blurred against the screen fighting the ice pick

That self is a reflection that doesn’t quite meet what’s happening on this side of the glass

that self is the shadow that comes from behind the curtain in the empty room in the empty house at the end of the empty block

that self is the fingers creeping up against the edge of your bed frame reaching somehow underneath the impenetrable shield of sheets that you have built

it is the monster under the bed but not yours, the monster under the bed of people who would rather see you live in your scarcity.

Those who would rather see you consumed by those fears, who would rather see you die in the status quo

Be the boogeyman for everybody whose own desires are repressed

Be the boogeyman for every man who wanted to wear a skirt; for every girl who wanted to help put away in the chairs after church

that healed self is a trickster god, bringing in chaos wreaking havoc

When you realize the healed self is a monster in their eyes, at first it’s hard, but then I found, it’s kinda freeing. Because then I could be all the things that used to scare me