Scratches

After months of work pressures, noisy neighbours, house moving and worrying legal situations, the stresses have taken their toll on the relationship. It’s just over a week now until we leave north London behind and move to the suburbs south of the river, to a compact little place just for two. However, with a houseful of furniture, clothes, books and that miscellaneous category we’ll call ‘stuff’ to pack, it’s no easy feat.

 

I pointed out a social event this weekend; after being told that I still have so much to pack and prepare, I (very immaturely) lost my temper. Voices became progressively louder, until I raised a plate, looking as if I was going to through it at the wall, or worse, my partner. He (quite rightly) stormed out. I sat tearfully on the bed, trying to come up with some kind of escape plan before it was too late. Exhausted and emotional, I instead chose to slink off to the bathroom, spending several minutes debating what to do with the garishly pink razor on the shelf, before playing a pathetic game of noughts-and-crosses on my thigh.

 

Today, I went to work, doing my best to play the part of Sophisticated Young Professional. My eyes ached from crying and lack of sleep, but a good foundation can cover that. After downing several cups of caffeine to push past the fatigue, my bathroom visit reminded me of my adolescent cry for help – a habit I’d fought off for several months, and am definitely now too old for.

 

So there it is. Right beneath my no-VPL M&S pants. Six red, raw scratches, reminding me to hurry up, grow up and control myself before you give up waiting.

A Love Poem

I wish I could take your scent
The warm aroma of cinnamon and cocoa
Bottle it.
Spritz some on my pillow when I feel alone
Dab it on my thighs, between my breasts, the nape of my neck.
An echo of your touch.

I miss your black liquid eyes,
Sweeping across my body.
I want your delicate hands, with your olive oil skin
To caress every crevice of my body
To feel your breath on my cheek
To hear the soft lilt of your voice in my ear.

You are beautiful to me, my love.
An exotic creature,
Flying in a blaze of colour and spice to share my bed.
Stay with me here, beneath the sun-dappled sheets twisted around our bodies.
Do not let me tame you
Keep your black liquid eyes and sun-drenched scent
Just leave a drop for me.

Bruises

Distract myself
Cry, music, touch
Lie in the comforting warmth of the blankets we once shared
Bloodstains on the sheets; menstrual and inflicted.
Mascara runs down the pillow, trailing coal tracks in its wake.

I threw your shirt on the floor, but kept your ring. A silver noose hangs around my neck, keeping it safe between my breasts.

My face feels hot and swollen with tears. Eyes dance across the room; fingers twitch. Sweat trickles down my back.

Sat in the tube, as it hurtles through the darkness, swaying and twisting, tilting its passengers backwards and forward
That is how it feels in my head.
Dizzying, uncontrollable, unpredictable.

The candle has almost burned itself out
The flame dances against the mantlepiece.

I screamed and hurled our possessions at your head
Turned to slam a door for effect.
Tapered fingers grasped my neck as my head met the wall
Teeth clenched
Beginning how it would always end.

I do not blame you.
You were always worth more than this.

I shook and sobbed as the bruises formed.

Morning

In the morning I’ll be better

The pain deep in my chest will be gone

I’ll take a long breath of the cold autumn air

And start anew.

Finally Remembering the T

Last year, the wonderful Natacha Kennedy wrote an excellent piece for Comment is Free, highlighting the invisibility of trans people in media coverage of LGBT issues. The comments were typically trollish, but it highlighted the absence – even in the left-leaning press – of intelligent, respectful treatment of trans people. When a trans individual does get a mention in the media, it’s usually along the ‘Woman is actually a MAN‘ route, not to mention the tired (although arguably more sympathetic) ‘She was a girl trapped in a boy\’s body‘ cliche and the ridiculously inaccurate use of pronouns.

It was with some trepidation then that this Guardian piece was digested this morning. It addresses the discrimination and transphobia suffered by trans people in Indonesia, addressing how a combination of sociocultural conservatism, emphasis on medicalisation and legally-enshrined bigotry has made life increasingly difficult for those on the trans spectrum. Although it can be argued that the article places too much emphasis on surgical options, on the whole it is a well-researched, well-written and important piece, depicting the lives of trans people realistically yet respectfully.

Obviously I understand that I am not in the best position to reflect on the accuracy of the article; I am a white, middle-class, western woman. However, I do see myself as a part of the queer community, and being the partner of a non-British trans person, I understand the sociocultural issues at stake and the importance of being represented – or at least mentioned in a pronoun-correct capacity – within popular culture.

Yes, the article is not perfect, and it is only one piece amongst a wave of inaccurate and disrespectful reporting, but it’s start, and proof that the mainstream can engage with our community without resorting to the cliches and bigotry.

Tube Station, September

The platform was dusty and humid

Filled with besuited commuters, filling the air with sweat and strain and stress.

 

A white-winged butterfly fluttered into view.

Rested on the concrete floor

Heaved itself up

Once, twice, again and again and again, finding space between feet, bags, fast food wrappers.

 

Streams of bodies continue to fill the concrete pipe

No-one notices but I.

 

Wings tinged with a greenish hue

Tainted by the hot grey air around.

 

Closer you leap

I urge you to come rest at my feet

I’ll protect you, keep you safe

Shield you from impurity and corruption.

 

A sudden shrieking wind picks up

Launching a cool breeze against ties, coats, hair

Providing welcome respite from the stifling suffocation.

 

In it comes

Pushing, screaming, demanding attention

A red and white stampeding monolith.

 

Heads turn, elbows jostle

Toes step upon each other in the rush to assert personal space.

 

And as the stinking, screeching serpent shoots along the tracks

Your wings lift you up

By your own effort or the force of the carriages, I cannot tell

You veer towards its path

And the last I see of you is one tiny, delicate wing, as you are swallowed by the darkness.

Commuter Love

I’d forgotten my book that day

Some heavy fantastical tome or anti-consumerist treatise most like.

I squeezed myself into the tube, planning to do something wholesome with my evening

Do some exercise

Clean the kitchen

Phone my mother.

 

A pale slender wrist was the first I saw of you

Turning the pages of some free commuter rag.

A sweaty besuited businessman moved his enormous rump out of the way, revealing a delicate neck, covered by soft peachy fuzz.

Hair fair and cropped short like a boy’s

Fine and golden in the usually unforgiving strip lights.

 

Crisp white shirt, buttoned all the way up

Blue chinos and brogues.

 

Your chin was plump and wrinkled as you chewed your bottom lip.

A small beige bruise on your forearm.

 

I wanted to lean into your scent, kiss your bare neck.

Feed you, undress you, laugh with you.

 

We got off at the same stop, as I had hoped we would.

You stepped in front of me, my eyes right behind that perfect neck.

I followed you up the escalator, aching for you to turn around and acknowledge me.

Perhaps we could know each other

We could smile and say hello every evening

Become the start of some beautiful commuter romance.

 

But as we both strode through the barriers, out into the great art deco hall, you turned towards the other exit

My body cried out to follow, to catch the smell of you just one more time

But I had to turn the other way

And merely hope to see you tomorrow.