His room smells like it always has, and we lie across his bed like we always do. Our bodies look like railings on a train track. Dust collects on the frames of Hayley’s portraits like the sand dunes. Their eyes don’t follow me. But mine follow the shape of his hair when he tucks it out of his face.
The second drawer of his dresser houses a sleepy orphanage of dolls Pippa used to build. I think about the body I inhabit - its spine contorted to hide what I asked it not to do, its bones shaped for some destiny I’ll never fulfill. Can it ever sit there too?
I think I’d let him keep it, should he ever want to try it on. Maybe in exchange, I could have his hands and height, but he wears those well. There are limitations to that sort of pottery.
He shows me hentai he’s read. We laugh. We kiss. I get him hard as a sort of game. Neither of us are particularly invested. But my fingers still know the dips in his stomach. My mouth knows his as a child knows a swing set. My eyes are greener here. I wished his hips were wider.
His brow furrows when I adjust my binder. I’m not sure which of us said it first. But he knows it as I do.
“I pretend you’re a girl when we kiss.”
I feel the corner of his mouth tilt upward against my own.
“Dude,” he begins, and I see a chuckle building at the base of his neck. “I would be a great girlfriend.”
He wouldn’t. His hands would wander toward the waist of another and it would be over fast. But I didn’t even mind the sarcasm. Secrets pass through the space between our chests like water. I poke his side the way he does to me. But he smiles, and so do I.
I wonder how much of me is a woman to him. He probably wonders the same.
“I’ll put you in one of my old dresses,” I reply. “I’ll make you very pretty.”
He winks. The bastard. “I’m looking forward to it.”
He never lies to anyone.
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two
i do not remember dying,
but i know that i am dead,
words have changed in their color,
joy has got a diff'rent smell,
anger melted into something
that i do not understand,
hell is frozen, love is liquid,
death is dying, life is dead,
earth is spinning wrong direction,
i and i are not the same,
i like thinking i am perfect,
but i know that i am not,
maybe that is why i'm death'd,
maybe why i'll die again,
i can't fathom how i'll perish,
but i hope i get the chance.
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the urge to show people the sims we’ve been making of ourselves vs the anxiety of “oh [fictive] very obviously looks like [artist]’s interpretation of the character people will notice and think we’re weird and blacklist us from fandom forever”
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