And again I stare at my chest as if waiting for it to bloom.

The language we currently use to describe ourselves is a form of Boolean algebra.

I don’t want scars to remind me that I had to take a knife to this body in order to call it mine.

I buy a dress shirt and I feel like a child again. It is a men’s size S and the cuffs go past my fingertips.

A stranger mistook her left for her right and kissed me on the shoulder instead of her boyfriend.

I hope we evolve into higher beings with 6 sexually dimorphic genders and needlessly complex sex.

My parents watch a video of my nephew. They laugh and say he reminds them of me as a child.

I watch the broad shoulders of the Asian man walking in front of me and feel euphoric.

I don’t want to shoot up this body in order to call it mine.

Would I prefer being a fairy in a dress or a butch dyke in menswear?

This fear is habitual, unconscious, reflexive.

My optometrist asks me, Number 3, or number 4?