The chest I hoped for - Some thoughts on 2 years post-op
You are not the chest that I hoped for. This whole body protrudes like a sore thumb on a spiderweb of thin, abled bodies. And I have arachnophobia so I’m always cautious and wary. If I ever get caught traveling through this lair, I am scared that a spider will come to wrap me in everything I am not and will never be, and eat me whole.
You are not the chest that I hoped for. I remember thinking of revisions, praying for Ozempic, longing for something that would make me lighter and smaller and maybe then, maybe, I would look pretty. My stretched skin a blood stain on a white carpet. I used boiling water to wash it off and the fucker spread its colour like butter on toast, just as greasy and gross.
There is something, you know, when you spent years and years going through yet another puberty to finally feel home in your goddamned body, just to see your hopes robbed by cruel normativity. I will never ever ever ever be pretty.
Honest brutality. I’ve grown too old and it was too late and I have fucked up genes and an alcohol fueled belly. Dried skin covering my tattoos from a psorioaris that never fucking heals, Weight gain so obvious in clothes I outgrown but I can’t afford to buy again new shirts again new pants again and again and again.
You’re not the chest that I hoped for. All rolls and scars and when I sit you make little pouches. Makes sense for my body type but doesn’t for my fragile ego. I avoid mirrors in my house, I avoid windows and any reflecting glass or water outside. I avoid giving myself a new name. I avoid making myself look remotely close to a human being.
A dog with a few pounds looks cute or looks strong. It is loved it is cared for it is worth loving. It doesn’t scream failure it is just a being that still needs to be fed and still go on walks and we move to its pace, slower. It is treated with the gentleness and respect it deserves.
A limping broken overfed doll, I
am laying on the couch naked on a heatwave day. Sweat running down my forehead and neck. At least it’s a summer I can bear to spend shirtless. When there’s days no gender, no amount of time or money or effort or patience seems like there is a future where this flesh will be home, I put my hand on my chest and I feel my heart beat. Just for a few minutes. There’s still life here.
You're not the chest I hoped for. In a life I never wished for. Shapes that I couldn't even in my wildest dreams have pictured. It will take me some time to tell you I love you but I will, I promise.
Every breath I take in and you rise like wild grass in the wind.
Every breath I let out and you fall like a cat under a ray of sun.
We'll make it home someday.
