Sabbath of the (trans) witches at the red river

I walked out into the woods

talking with you one the phone

until darkness fell

and I had to find my way back with the deer crossing.

.

So you say you’ve been a man,

just like I’ve been a woman.

Sometimes you still are.

I know, I see that duality, although I’m not sure I’d have noticed it if I hadn’t known you years ago.

I’ve also secretly called you the magician, in my thoughts.

Observing your thick black hair cascading down your back with the red and purple fireflies in it, as you watch the trees or the squirrels somewhere in the distance.

I’m not quite sure who or what we are.

.

You’ve made more magic in this life.

Some of that magic involved hormones artificially synthesised only in the last century. But that’s certainly not all of your alchemy; you respect the tradition.

I’m left to the devices I have.

I won’t change.

My skin won’t get thicker, my body won’t get stronger. I will stay with my mad mood swings and psychic insights. I will stay with the blood, and the gentleness.

I’m not sure why.

.

.

*This was about a conversation between two trans people.

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