“[…]you aren’t a man, don’t want to be a man, but maybe if you could slip inside his universe for an evening you could find the words to explain that the reason you gird yourself in glitter and glamour is that it makes girls notice you the way you notice him[…]” I’m not NB, but you guys, my stomach flipped over when I read that. Go read the whole thing.
you have a habit, late at night when you are sure nobody will disturb you, of writing your thoughts onto your skin: bold black and red along the sharp angle of your ilium, the inward curve of your obliques; the names of lovers across the plane of your abdomen or the heavy, yielding weight of your breasts; promises and secrets and vows of fidelity (and once, memorably, “fuck me, daddy” in perfect cursive, bold and dark against the lean lines of your adductor longus). when you slip into your black tights and your tight shirts and the skirts your mother hates, the words remain, your little secret. you are a poet and an artist, and your body is both lexicon and tabula rasa, the canvas onto which you project in living colour an imperfect image of yourself.
your body marks the boundaries of your universe, and you mark it…
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