Dear Freud. If I set myself on fire, will you donate your prescription pad and add to the flames…
With all this time and lack of insurance, one can self-diagnose. One can decide against gender delineation and just just live inside the syllables of in-between elastic waist or double-windsor neck choke or what would you call threads of neutral. Sometimes humans just like to live inside the songs of their bones and not think about how wardrobe can be deadly. This is just a skirt and I am neither male nor the one who gives birth to them. Its synonym calls for nonaligned or unaffiliated or detached. But its more accurate to call me transgressive. Transcirculatory. Transscribing the symptoms of peace within this blood. These days, it is dangerous to fall asleep on subways or buses. An(other) may spit lighter fluid toward the vulnerable snores of a body challenging peel-off labels. Not everything not everyone can be put inside a box. You cannot donate your organs if you don’t choose a gender. We may need more boxes because these options are not enough to supply me with an answer. Alarm clock may be replaced by the furious fumes of skin peeling away from its cellular structure. It will all grow back but the texture will change and how can anyone feel safe on an earth where humans slice away or burn through or bullet-hole their way in. Just for being. For being. For being.
Aimee Herman 
