transangelic exodus on four wheels

IN THIS RUGGED COUNTRY WHERE ALL THE WEEDS GROW FIERCE

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hello! i’m el @bladeandwound & this is my writing archive.

publications

image description in alt text and/or in reblogs.

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on (language around) transfeminine bodies as sites of social-reproductive labor

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so i went to the barber

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a different version titled barber on [] island published in the dawn review & now nominated for best of the net 2024 !

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so i went to the barber

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i've been dabbling in flash lately. this was published in the november 2022 issue of erato magazine.

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THE STATE

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collapse, now published in the greenhouse issue of pink plastic house

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Hey You, Sir, Should Be Coming Out in INKSOUNDS

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my own private nonexistence

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WHEN WE SLUR OUR OWN WATERS, found poem from Page 55 of Bestiary (2020) by K-Ming Chang

[ID: Blackout poem on white background, with a significant portion of the text ‘blacked out’ in dark red. The visible parts read: “our shoulder blades knotted up to rub flint side by side, skin wrestling each other to history, fuck/marry/kill to kill all who ate bread and butter for breakfast. I related to gravity, the way blades belonged inside black bows in my hair. and She looked at every I, tearing out a river from her mouth: on her, pretending to drown, I plated my teeth to her pulse. she pronounced us raw, never properly cooked inside mothers. Our god of language, who taught us our arms, wrote in red on our question: Why is water our dialect?” /end ID]

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in angel rust magazine :)

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pluto probably has a hole in his heart and we will never know

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short new thing now out in miniMAG!

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Disappointing Prior Walter the Thirty-Fourth for Mister Magazine

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WHEN THE WRITER TRIES TO MAKE NUMBNESS HUMANE, for Tigers Zine

[ID: Black text in Georgia font on white background that reads: “When poets crawl out of dead-white paper to remind me I’m an alive thing;/ When in the darkness I mouth my own fist as though it were something/ More authoritative, like God maybe, or even a loaf of bread not too dry/ For this blood-softened and bite-prone delicacy; when I am reduced to begging/ To an unknown thing, like a cicada out of season and reduced to dust, in hope/ Their cries are cries of tears, and not a necessity, like breathing; when/ Terribly alone in my hope I weep, unaware that hope itself is a product/ Of a life, small but here inside of me, like some sort of extraordinary stream,/ Like blood or more – I am then an unconditional human. Yet I must step out/ Of this room where I create monsters only to weep on their shoulders, to face/ The more human things, like light and water, and sweet-eyed June, and/ Spiders asleep amongst their poison.” /end ID]

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now rehoused in five south journal :)

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WHEN THE WRITER TRIES TO MAKE NUMBNESS HUMANE, for Tigers Zine

[ID: Black text in Georgia font on white background that reads: “When poets crawl out of dead-white paper to remind me I’m an alive thing;/ When in the darkness I mouth my own fist as though it were something/ More authoritative, like God maybe, or even a loaf of bread not too dry/ For this blood-softened and bite-prone delicacy; when I am reduced to begging/ To an unknown thing, like a cicada out of season and reduced to dust, in hope/ Their cries are cries of tears, and not a necessity, like breathing; when/ Terribly alone in my hope I weep, unaware that hope itself is a product/ Of a life, small but here inside of me, like some sort of extraordinary stream,/ Like blood or more – I am then an unconditional human. Yet I must step out/ Of this room where I create monsters only to weep on their shoulders, to face/ The more human things, like light and water, and sweet-eyed June, and/ Spiders asleep amongst their poison.” /end ID]

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WHEN WE SLUR OUR OWN WATERS, found poem from Page 55 of Bestiary (2020) by K-Ming Chang

[ID: Blackout poem on white background, with a significant portion of the text ‘blacked out’ in dark red. The visible parts read: “our shoulder blades knotted up to rub flint side by side, skin wrestling each other to history, fuck/marry/kill to kill all who ate bread and butter for breakfast. I related to gravity, the way blades belonged inside black bows in my hair. and She looked at every I, tearing out a river from her mouth: on her, pretending to drown, I plated my teeth to her pulse. she pronounced us raw, never properly cooked inside mothers. Our god of language, who taught us our arms, wrote in red on our question: Why is water our dialect?” /end ID]

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our zine is FINALLY DONE !!! and can be found FREE on gumroad !!!

i’d like to thank the following contributors (who participated via tumblr): @eveesque @stone-butch-blue @hee-blee-art @morgutio & @igbygoesdown ! check out their work in this issue, it wouldn’t have been made without them!! 💚