13 – I like men. That much is obvious. I’m a normal heterosexual then. Good.
14 – Kissing is gross, the first time. Then I learn to like it and I never seem to get enough. You don’t really seem to like it as much, you say I have issues because my parents never took good care of me and you are right. I do have issues and maybe that’s why I like kisses so much. A normal reaction, a normal person.
16 – I fantasize about men with breasts and women with dicks but that’s just weird and insane and not right. Let’s forget about that. Focus on what things are. They are how they should be. God can’t make such gross mistakes. Right? Right. Good.
I’d like to have a dick myself but Freud says all girls miss the not being complete like men, so I’m a normal girl. That’s good too.
25 – What is it with men and breasts? I hate that fascination. I hate when you touch them. I hate my own body. Sex is never really that good. But apparently that’s normal because girls don’t really learn to like their bodies before they “wake up to their sexuality” around thirty. I’ll just have to wait then. I’m still normal.
28 – I learn to like sex, somewhat. I even seek it sometimes. I spend a lot of time doing it alone and whatever people have to say about that, it feels normal. I think I like sex. I like men. I still prefer kisses and cuddles and miss having a penis but all in all, I’m really normal. I am normal. I am.
31 – Why are you jealous? Why are you trying to make me feel bad saying you will go with another woman? Why are you pissed when I tell you to go ahead if that’s what you want? Why do I feel like you’re about to beat me? Why am I staying with you?
How could you not see it coming? Isn’t that what you wanted all along? No, I’m not coming back.
32 – You want to talk, polyamory is the word you say. It rings a bell. It rings so loud, the sound makes me shiver for days after. Life starts making sense. You like seeing me happy as much as I enjoy seeing you happy, and you too, even with other yous. Life is good. I’m good.
33 – Life is good. I like kissing and cuddling more and I like men and maybe women and if ever I meet some wonderful person who doesn’t entirely fit any of these tags, I swiftly forget how troubled I am and go on with my life. I keep their number though. I might like girls a bit but that’s ok, I’m still normal, just maybe bisexual but that’s a thing, I’m not some weirdo. Well I am but not for that reason. I’m just odd because that’s me. I’m good. Good.
34 – It’s time to heal now. I unburden my mind, my body, my soul. Out with the bottomless sorrow I always felt at my parents failures. Forgive them somewhat for mistreating me as they did, never raising voice or hand, not in anger, not in kindness, acting like I wasn’t there, like I didn’t exist. What am I without the sorrow? Without the pain and the anger? Who am I now? I’m good.
35 – I remember you, the child I was so unfit to have. The child I loved enough to decide it was best not to bring you into this land of sorrow. I finally cry the tears I’ve never been able to shed for your loss and I feel your love, somehow, somewhere, your forgiveness. I let you go, at last and I’m really good.
I write, I write furiously, tiny snippets of stories, fragments of emotions shaped into character, brought to the world in a figurative and meaningful way. My stories are filled with girls in love with girls, uncommon families where the relationship aren’t what people think they are, men with men’s lovers, statues taking life, magic. Most of all magic and love. It’s all good, like life coming back with each word breathed out. Good.
But you still touch my breasts and insist I should love oral sex. I insist it gets painful more often than not and you insist it’s never been done properly to me but you can do better. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should let you try. It hurts. Sometimes you do as I ask, and just fuck me like I want. And it still hurts. It shouldn’t right? I’m not a virgin anymore and it’s not supposed to hurt after the first time. And I’m over 30 now and I’ve learned a lot and I enjoy many things but this still feels wrongs. What’s wrong with me?
Then there is you. You don’t care about breasts. You don’t like oral sex. You like ass and you take me as if I had a male body. It feels good. It freaks me out. I cut myself from the world, try to tell myself it’s because of work. I still need lots of sex but I’m happy by myself.
I. Am. Good.
36 is now – A year passed and I start seeing people again. Find myself in a boy’s bed, without really knowing how that happened. It’s the usual, good, but not that good. I felt attraction though but maybe that only meant I wanted cuddles and kisses and caresses and not the sex I got.
I like all sorts of people. I like to kiss and touch. Most of all I like their brains. Not like a zombie silly, I like what they do with their brains, texts and songs and art and stuff. I love having conversations with them. Sometimes the way their brain works makes me want to touch them, excites me even though I know I’m not gonna like sex when it happens.
I like you. I love you. “Pardon the way that I stare, there’s no one else to compare, the sight of you makes me weak, there are no words left to speak” except I do have other people in my life and I still have lots of words which is good because words are the breath of life to me. But I can’t take my eyes off of you, that much of the song is true. The elusive touche of your hand, the light kiss you gave me are the kind of things I crave and I dread the moment when habits will make me do things I don’t really want to do but will maybe enjoy but not really but still is nice but I didn’t want to and fuck! It’s complicated!
So I’m not aromantic, I do love you, and you and you. I don’t enjoy sex but I want to and I want you. I still hate my body, there’s too much of it upstairs and not enough downstairs. Maybe I just want to be a boy. I want to be a boy. I should be a boy. Oh boy!
Is that what was wrong with me all along? Being trapped in a body that shouldn’t be mine? Is that why my family behaved like I wasn’t there? Because I really wasn’t? Because I didn’t exist? Maybe I never was myself until now. Maybe that is why my body never felt good, why the things I like are the things I would do if I was a gay man. Or maybe I just don’t like sex, except I kind of do.
Or maybe my family was kind and took care of me but I can’t remember because the person they took care of wasn’t allowed a voice, wasn’t allowed to exist. I did find a surprising amount of letters and postcards saying I love you when I cleaned the old shoe boxes. What if I only remember the bad things they did because the part of me who always had the upper hand was the nasty murderous part who smothered my male identity? What if I killed the part in me who received their love? Can I get it back?
Maybe what I really like is for you to tie me up and use my body for your own pleasure until I beg for mercy. Maybe I need to get rid of my breasts and grow a dick by magic. Maybe we can just have fun together without involving genitals. Maybe someday, I’ll figure out who I am.
I am many*.
A child running, a wolf hopping, a maze. I am she-who-hops-after-the-sparkles-in-glee. I am the young warrior, at the top of his strength. The son of Meduselde and the daughter of Light, I am stark, waiting for winter, beloving the fall. I am living on margins, uncertain on sharp edges.
Don’t ask me who I am because I am many.
A child craving, a wolf hunting, a maze spinning. I am curling in a corner, licking my wounds in loneliness. I am laughing with my friends near a warm fire. I am calling out for answers. I am the lady-who-asks-a- very-many-questions : one elephant child. I am the cat that walks by himself, I am one of the pack. I breathe I hop I am. I’m lonely and my pack is gone. I am the child craving for attention, I am the lover safe in your arms. I am the hunter thirsty for blood. I am learned, I am wild. I am the ice and fire and the ocean wide. I am the monk embracing the whole in one mind. I am focused, I am wide :
I am spreading like.
And I am desperately trying to douse the wildfire and tame it into embers. The fire that goes slower goes longer:
“Aime moi moins fort, mais aime moi plus longtemps.”
- This little piece of self-portrait poetry was written in 2009 and had been on my mind for years before that.