A Place for the Living
I live for those lips. I see rows of lipstick. Perfectly aligned. I see rows of mascara tubes, eyeliners, foundation.
Never for me.
I see them in the bathroom. I see them putting on the makeup. I see a transformation, an application of will on the shape of the body. I see control, agency over oneʼs outside appearance.
Itʼs a magical moment, a time outside reality, when true femininity materializes.
The perfect coordination, the combination of the soft, tactile ability, and an inquisitive perception, through the touch of the fingers, the sense of the face, the most subtle color captured by the eye. Years upon years – their whole life – of practice. Itʼs not art at this point, itʼs profession pushed to mastery.
But never for me.
I see them but they are so alien to me. If they like me, that means they like boys right? But Iʼm not a boy. How can I possibly reconcile this?
Thatʼs a joke, right? How can anyone like boys?
They tell me: yes you are cute, yes you can be loved. But itʼs empty to me, they canʼt change my body.
Those nice lips, those cute cheeks. That beautiful voice. Yeah, superficial, I know. Maybe they like me, maybe they tolerate me. They are probably afraid of me. For the wrong reasons. But regardless, Iʼm a monster, I can only be a monster. I will never not be a monster. Iʼm a chimera.
Iʼm alone, so alone, so far away from everyone.
Never did I close in on those lips. No intimacy, always cold, far away, cold as the dead expenses of space.
How can I dare to dream of warmth? My whole life, excluded, dry and cold. Yet, I long for it.
But, itʼs never for me.
Maybe I can try to parse the language, try to capture and understand it. Sure, I can learn to flirt. But it feels wrong, itʼs not for me, itʼs taking on a role I canʼt stand, makes me sick.
I tried once, and I hated myself for the two following years.
I had grown accustomed to the cold, grew afraid of the warmth.
But the warmth, I need it, Iʼm dead without it.
I am alone in the cold, but I see those brazen, burning stars in the sky. Itʼs warm there. But soooo far.
Then, a flying star. Everything changes color, a new light to see the world by. It passed by so close. It stings me. It leaves and Iʼm in the cold again.
But I was changed. I felt the warmth, it burned away the fear. The stars arenʼt a mark of shame anymore, they are a goal. The flying star shows me the way.
When I saw her in formal wear: tights with black hotshorts and fat patent leather shoes, I could barely hold on my two legs. She was fantastic, I lost my words.
It happened more than once now. Always: formalwear, tights and black hotshorts. A simple grey wool slipover, tightly made hair bun with one shiny lock slipping over the face.
This was the third time now. The same effect, I barely can hold. But this time it was special, very special. I started to cry. Itʼs going to mess up my makeup. The phenomenon was pretty easy to explain: In front of me, was a mirror.
Each morning, I wake up – Iʼm an expert at this now –, I get myself some tea, look out the window – not much to see in this dreary winter –, and go to the bathroom.
Now time to apply my magic. I enter this space outside reality, and true femininity materializes.
My lips, my skin, soft, beautiful.
Not not for me.
But more than that. Iʼm not alone anymore. The skin, the lips. I touched them, stroked them. They want me too, I can understand that, Iʼm cute. Sheʼs cute. She tells me she likes me because I am the way I am, not despite. I understand her.
Before, they all looked past me; Their sight stopped at the cold outside, or simply slipped by. Now, Iʼm a star too, Iʼm visible, and I tell who I am. The ones looking for me can now find me.
The warmth inside and around me. Escaped from space. The dead cold universe, a place only fit for dead people. Why put anyone there? Why stay there?
We should leave cold places to the dead.