Ya know, there’s nothing like #polyamory to make me really face that only I can decide which Totoro themed duffle or weekender bag is right for me.

Trans Femme: The government is trying to kill me. The Cis: But are they really, thooooo… Trans Femme: I’m trying to kill the government. The Cis: TREASON!

I do a thing on fedi where I post: <sits nearby for company> It’s my way of letting someone know that I’ve been reading what they are writing, that I would be sitting and listening to them talk. That what they are saying and feeling is valid. I sometimes do this on positive posts (company is good for sharing joy, too!), but mostly when people are expressing pain or frustration or similar. It’s a way of trying to offer presence without activating the physical metaphor of hugs, which some folks don’t want in moments of intense emotion. But more than any of those things, it’s how I make space for them and their feelings without changing or defining the mood with my own. I’m trying to make it about them and their feelings. I often have very strong feelings about what they’ve written. If it is about a complicated situation, the person might have a mixture of positive and negative feelings, and in the moment, they are trying to explore those feelings. If I offered my opinions of, for example, how in-the-wrong someone else was when talking to the author of the post, then the author might feel like they don’t have the emotional space to feel their own feelings. That they must react to me (either by replying or just in their own heads) by refocusing on the complexities of the situation. I want them to be able to feel how they need to feel right now, and feel a little less alone about it. That’s why I sit nearby for company.

Okay help me, sapphic fedi. I need a “sapphic dance party spiting fascism” playlist - upbeat, focused on how amazing we are, with a bitter undertaste, like the bite of chocolate, to remind us of what we face. I’ve got: Muna “I Know A Place” Zolita “All Girls Go To Heaven” FLETCHER “Live Young Die Free” Janelle Monáe “Cold War” What should I add?

Okay, when I go to Sapphic Night at the gay bar, why don’t I hear any MUNA? Where’s the FLETCHER? girli? Janelle Monáe? Zolita? Heck, where’s Chappell Roan? WHY ARE WE NOT HOT TO GO!?

Loving Myself Is Hard The Way Grasping The Wind Is Hard #ThingsYouCantUnsay Sorry, cute young soft butch girl; it was really impressive the way you worked up the courage to ask for my number outside the club. I doubt you have any idea how close you came to watching calamity unfold in your bedroom. I’m so easy to love. I am so far from loving myself. I love myself so much. I don’t love myself enough to hold on to myself. I sold to others a sealed box full of my love for myself the moment I had the chance. I didn’t love myself enough to notice. And each time, when I finally figured out what I’d lost and where it had gone, I hesitated to love myself enough to save myself. But I love myself enough to save myself. I love myself enough to leave others bleeding when I come to reclaim my self-love. I love myself enough that gutting others causes me profound sadness. I love myself enough to be sad. I don’t know how to adequately express my mixture of sorrow and self-acceptance. It’s not an apology for the bleeding. It’s an apology for not loving myself enough in the first place. It sounds so selfish. I guess the selfish part was seeking others’ love to substitute for the love I wasn’t giving myself. Sorry for the things I did when I didn’t love myself enough. I hope one day I’ll love myself so much, I can love others without forgetting to love myself. When I love others, it feels like the foreplay of giving myself away. I don’t want to give myself away. Fuck, loving myself is hard the way grasping the wind is hard. Loving myself is glorious the way matching my body to a crowd and a moment and a rhythm is fleeting and perfect and glorious. If I could tell you how, I would. If I could remember how, I would. I’ll keep dancing. I’ll keep trying to love myself. Maybe my body knows how. Maybe I can ask her.

Every time a #trans girl awakens safely from gender affirming surgery, a TERF gets hives. #Boost this please, so I can screenshot it for my friend!

Looking down on the electrolysis table is weird. Like, seriously, that’s not what I’m supposed to have between my legs.

I wish trans people sucked #ThingsYouCantUnsay I wish trans people sucked. I wish that when you thought about trans people, the default reaction was, “they’re so basic. There’s nothing interesting about them.” I wish we generally lived boring lives, wake up, do our part for the community we live in, care for our families, maybe do a bit of work, make a really boring dinner, bed early. I wish you knew so many trans people that when someone new came out as trans, your spouse turned to you with a bored expression and asked if they should order your usual coming-out gift for trans people. In the same way as you have a signature baby-shower gift. I wish trans people were not, generally, some of the most interesting, vibrant, resourceful, creative, determined, self-aware, clear-eyed, insightful, caring, and kind people you know. I wish we didn’t have to be all those things to have a chance to survive. I wish that accepting ourselves and coming out was not a gauntlet that leaves all but a random fraction of the most amazing of us to die, our truths snuffed out unacknowledged. I wish we didn’t need to be the best of the best, just to make it far enough to see the light through a crack in the closet door. Goddess, I wish trans people sucked.