Post Op Day 6
Post Operative Day 8:
It is beyond a week that I live without the prominence of two mounds of flesh for me to carry. I live with a renewed sense of weightlessness, one that well-cared-for children tend to exhibit daily. I am a well-cared-for child that I’ve had to raise myself, from one life to the next. This is my next life, both a deviation from and a continuation of what has passed. I revel in the brave innocence I’ve taken like a tonic, the liquid filling in the cracks of my opened wound. I understand and care for the prayer that has left its mark on my visage to the world, spoken in the shape of a broken smile. The scars that mark my journey enter me, with willingness or without, into the family of others who have taken this road of roads.
I see the genius in all of our unique gender adventures. How perfect and brilliant it is that we as gender fuckers exist with a ringing vivacity. That we demand to be recognized as all beings should. That we with our heart’s leadership create space for all others to live in their truth. This genius I celebrate with a fierceness birthed by the untenable immersion into the death of my old self. The sensations of death do not have to take the body with it, for the body is held together by invisible strands. Each day there is a weaving. As quiet as the small animal in the brush at dawn, the new self emerges and fastens the body anew.
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