Menu
There’s still something in my pulp. It’s been there all along. It began with subtle twinges of unbelonging, a little wrongness with my long hair and soft breasts. It’s not that these parts were bad, it’s that they didn’t seem to belong to me. Like pulp, they float in me, unwanted and hard to swallow. I choke it 1back, but still my throat is scratched raw. My angles are all wrong. I want to be harder, want to be sharper.
What does it mean for me to feel this way?
Am I a boy?
Am I a girl?
Am I a disappointment?
The truth is, I am all and none of the above. My existence resides in the liminal space between one and the other. Still, it is not a mixture of man and woman, but it’s own realm of confusion. This is not a choice, but a realization. I have to come clean.
My existence is liminal. Some still see me as that little girl in the changing room. I see myself as an ever-changing, ever-expanding being. My body does not fit. My pulp does not fit. Yet here I am.