Dysphoria.

 

The groaning hips, the erotic body he visuals, I use as tips, bullets in the province of an ice cube fondled. Cold to the circus inside, transfiguration reaching for the end

of a sleeping bag. I make a magical circle to garner supernature. I might then catch a glimpse of my tail and swallow it. My sight beholds the inside odyssey as preferable

and yet I transition from embodying the womb to gawk at blood held in a sack. The event of scrambling to understand the extent to which another’s phallus is still a flaw to

him can be travailed by the responsive beyond of the not quite female. That state so unsettled by identity as gendered she makes you cry insulting you so gravely just so

you'll leave her alone. Via separation she will in turn be quietened and not view you, so further detaches from her self-loathing as a She at all. She, offender of

the lifeblood of Patriarchy. As if oestrogen were the central cow subduing a brief pride that might be mad, a conduit for originality. From that point on inside her cell

unbeknownst to her is the making of an outsider as she refuses to be residual. What greater pretence to consider she might not have been full of rage at that point.

Anything less and she might have lost her skin whilst the outsider in her is performing the hermaphroditic trope revealing a means to evade fear of a coherent gender.