you talk at me through long strands of black hair. your bangs, long. hands, long. arms, long. fingers: impossibly long. everything about you is long and lean and delicate.
yet, you are: so strong. you are the very definition of reed (which is ironic since that is where you long to be, buried in books and discourse)
look at you, long black reed. look at you bending over yourself, talking to me through your hands, talking into your knees. talking about the one who says mean things just to tear you down. look at you popping back up and pulling your slender fingers through the curtain of your hair to peek back out at me. i'm still here. i'm still listening and nodding and asking you more questions.
i am still. sharing the space.
learning about slave-to-owner. learning about all you want validated. learning about all that you think that you are. you say that was me at 14, finding words that i didn't know existed that described exactly what i had been feeling for so long: gender dysphoria; slave; trans.
i am still here. trying to find words i didn't know existed to sum up my own way. of being.
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