forget the beach that makes you old. i wanna go to the lake that makes you trans. at least that’s how i take this. you go to the lake and you violently drown the perfect pretty girl everyone admires and then you’ll never be her again, and your aunts and uncles who never made that much of an effort anyway are standing around sobbing their eyes out like, “she was such a pretty girl! such a beautiful and lovely girl! why did she have to go!” and when you’re having kind of a rough day and the dysphoria creeps in, for a second you’re like, “damn maybe i should’ve stayed a chick.” so you go to the lake where you drowned that girl and you’re like “hey how you doin.” and the hand is sticking up out of the lake, and it’s beckoning you with its siren song, trying to convince you that you’re one of the same, but buddy, you go in that lake? you’re done for. you’re going the way of the deadname. so you gotta give that hand a good look and go. mm. didn’t they pull your body out of this lake already? you’re not here, you’re in the ground. you’re cremated or something. you’re obliterated. there’s no getting you back, girl, shut up and stop calling me! and she won’t shut up for a while, but eventually, your hands start to look different, because hrt is magic, and i know i’m definitely looking at that hand sticking out of the lake next to my increasingly much more defined and veiny masculine hands, and going, “nope, not my hand. not me, baby. sorry, girl. you got the wrong guy.”
anyway, love this and love you.