The Spirit Bares Its Teeth

We are the same species. We're all human. It's not that people cannot understand me; it's simply that most of them don't want to

I want to take myself apart into something else, and if I cannot do that, I want to destroy every part of it that could ever be used against me.

Am I in love with her already? Perhaps. Or maybe I’m just confusing love with comfort, and I’m okay with that. Is there any difference between love and a safe harbor from a storm? Should there be? There are a lot of different kinds of love, and though I may not be able to tell them apart from each other, I appreciate all of them the same.

I want to peel off all my skin, if only so I could be anything other than a naked body, something horrifying instead of vulnerable. Nobody looks at a pig corpse and thinks it could be made beautiful.

I think the entire world depends on people pretending they don’t know they’re doing terrible things.

Why is it that when they hide their faces, men become monsters instead of angels?

When something terrible happens—or at least, when you learn about it—it feels like it should affect the entire world. It feels like something should change. But it doesn’t.

It should be noted that I do not define my manhood through my love of women. There are lots of men who do so: their hunger to dominate feminine things, their power over their wives and daughters, are the building blocks of their maleness. That is not me. Yes, I could love a man if I ever found one who accepts me as I am, and I’ve dreamed of being so lucky—but I love women too. I love women as men are expected to, but the way only one who has ever experienced womanhood can.

The places where you hurry are harsh: I pray that you run more gently

It is a mind that experiences the world too much. It is a mind that at once experiences everything in its smallest details, but without sensing the deeper meaning the rest of the world seems to inherently understand. It is a mind that sees the patterns and clicking, ticking systems all around us, but crumbles as soon as something falls out of place. It is a mind that operates, it seems, in a mirror version of the world, where the same actions and reactions are experienced so differently it’s like we are not even the same species.

You're not a coward for wanting to live

To separate how you are seen from who you are sometimes feels nigh impossible.

When the dead men come, we are waiting. We have been waiting so long. They must have convinced themselves they would never rot in the same dirt we do.

Because they gave birth to something they do not understand, because they tried so many times to fix me and they failed.

And until then, I will keep myself safe. That is not self-betrayal. That is self-preservation.

I learned to deal with it, because I was a little girl and men can do whatever they want to little girls.

I read everything as it is given to me, exactly how it is said, only to discover that the world always operates just below the surface.

I do not get to savor the masculine cut of my clothes, or the illusion of short hair, or the feeting joy of my skin feeling like mine. Instead, I have to worry if my boyhood is convincing enough to keep me safe. There is no joy in that. Only fear.

Men all hurt us in their own unique ways. None of us carry the same bruises, the same aches.

Death never goes after those who deserve it. It only ever takes those who aren't ready.

He's...he's doing the same thing I do. His hands are fluttering. Like mine. Oh God, he's like me.

My name is Daphne.' Daphne? In that moment, it's as if I've peeled the skin away from the chest of a patient, revealing a beating heart. A boy could not say that name as if terrified the syllables will break in the mouth. A boy-born-boy could not recognize what I am. Of course her name is Daphne. I stand up straight, taking a step from the door; and then another, and another. She's like me.

For the first time in my life, I found mirrors for myself. Daphne, and now him. It's bizarre to witness these parts of myself - whatever they are, for if they have names, I don't know them - separated. I tied them together in my mind, as if my inability to grasp the intricacies of other people means I failed to also grasp the meeting of my sex at a basic level; as if one thing caused the other. Headmaster seems to think they're one and the same. Mother and Father do too. To see them divided disproves that.

They must have convinced themselves they would never rot in the same dirt we do

The mask shatters into a thousand pieces. Halfway to her, I stumble, drop to my knees, and begin to cry. She's like me, she's like me, she's like me, and I'm safe.

I should not have to keep fixing the damage done to us. It would be so easy to not hurt us and the Speakers can't even do that. It's more work to hurt us. It's more work to be cruel - and yet they continue.

if we still had the fingers to take out their eyes we would feast on them like witches

There was to be no more chewing on my hair. No more flapping my hands or rocking. I would eat my dinner, no matter how awful I found it, and I would sit through parties politely with my legs crossed at the ankles. I was to be just like everyone else, no matter how much distress it caused me. It is the only way anyone will ever tolerate you, the tutor said.

I have to worry if my boyhood is convincing enough to keep me safe. There is no joy in that. Only fear.

It doesn’t matter if I like it, though. Nobody cares if I like myself this way. They still tried to fix me.