Bodies, bODIES

Now I'm a faggot. 

The journey I've taken in the last five years, the words that have exploded from the mouths of young "male" bodies at me, attached to some broken semblance of sick masculinity. Now I am a faggot.

I was once a dyke. Or, more often, a bitch. Now I am a faggot.

In any instance, I am a body. As much as I want to leave this body, here I am. Present and holding space for those-who-deem-me-faggot's sadness.

These are young bodies, deemed exclusively male-sexed by a limited modern scientific standard. Accepted wholly by most. Unaware of divine vessel diversity. These are called Bio males, cis males. Males. Not Fe-males. Not lesser than, lesser though. From the Rib of broken promises. The double edged sword stuck in its own rock. ( and then there's Queer; I mean Here, we are whatever we want to be.)

Let me paint the young bodies for you:
Testosterone-heavy white faces, pink flesh still so smooth from youth, small eyes crippled, small pits, crushed in a state of self confusion and malcontentedness, wrapped in baggy clothes found in the "Young Men's" department. Small but wanting some false big.
They are Off kilter, born into and abandoned emotionally and spiritually by structures inside but beyond their guardians' houses or their neighborhoods' rules. They are called Young Man from a walking age. They become, secretly and loudly, Abandoned Men.

They yell towards me, in my direction. They do not recognize my masculinity. They sense it, take my two spirited balancing energy, Strong Warrior I am, and always next I feel the pain of the imprisonment of their abandonment. They hurt inside, repelled by their own sickness. They once called me Bitch, Dyke, and today, they call me Faggot.

I see that as a parameter of my growth. I went from Sleeping Boy to Genderqueer Invisible to now Young Warrior Man.

Bodies, bodies.

I do not claim or cling to labels, as loud and compulsive as I whisper again and again, them. These clunky rusted words are for you to understand my body's changes, and my positionality within identity politics. I am a man, a male body born into what appears a XX chromosomal body.

I am not female.
Not female to male.

I'm not going TO anything.
Here I am.
Always have been.
My soul and heart and body are Renaissance masculine of center. And I take some minor adjustments, to be  recognized essentially, for my essence.

To fall back into place, my place, my body.
The needle rewrites the frays of my pained and wounded walking.

The sharpness is so I may become soft; the humble instruments are those I dropped so many years ago.

Bodies, bodies. My body. My male always body. My true aeon body. Beyond male body or female body. True body.

My body is a real and true body.
My body is the Neux body.

And one day it will all be seen and recognized and touched for its truth.







LOVE,

Marval The Sea Rex