journal (take #53)

dear diary, i’ll make this brief in the sense that i’ll try to summarize everything i cannot say concisely: there are abysses within me that cannot be explained by anything other than trauma responses. everyone’s mother has heard me say that my gender was chiseled off of me, but ask me how my chest feels when i think about having sex. the b-side of a butterfly is a moth and there are moths in every fold and crack of my torso. dear diary, when i open my mouth too wide, i vomit insects and it’s still better than the thought of a stranger’s skin on mine. i painted my body grey when i lost my gender, pheromones and their urges to follow. now i tell my diary i’m afraid of having sex and expect it to speak back, maybe reassure me. maybe shake me back to twenty, straight and easy. i only have eyes for lust now once love has taken over. i love the safety of the proper set of arms. i love when the chase is suspended, both parties sound and supple, entwined. dear diary, once the moths get their bearings outside the wet of lungs and womb, they make their way toward the light—that’s me when i love someone, stuck to the bulb for the glut of its warmth. that’s what i need to uncross my arms, unclench my jaw, relax my shoulders into another’s.