How to transition at the end of the world
There is no one perfect intentional move that describes transness, though you would like there to be.
It is wearing the same shirt over and over until it is full, it is slow, hormones and puberty and process, it is private, mundane, and it is also a public mental break, it is made public,
you are made sharp or soft or dangerous or helpless with the news cycle, it is a pendulum, it is a pendulum made of your body and the parts of yourself you feel the most proud and quiet about on display as if you have won the lottery that gives you a mismatched body, and aren't you lucky? Aren't you special? Aren't you supposed to be more hairless? Whiter? Slimmer? On accutane? Online? Visible? Right in my living room? Motionless? Unarmed? Both? All? Exactly what I want to see and nothing more? Oh yes, they deserve rights.
it is the most of what gender has to offer and then more. It is bass boosted, to be trans. It is silent and static heard after the speakers have damaged your ears and you are happy for the hurt. It is the smell of you changing, it is love so strong it tears your heart, it is the end of the world and yet here I am, making my body habitable, even if just for the next hour until the bomb drops. It is surely apocalyptic. It is going on and off and on and off until the bulb cracks and the filament drifts slowly to the bottom of the ocean like ash on fire. It is changing names, denying definition, being un-pin-downable.