By Hayden Elrafei
Art by Aryma Moore
CW: imagery suggestive of anti-queer and anti-trans violence.
Intruder.
In this locus of heterosexism
Born of violent white supremacy,
My queer and racialized body
Is entirely unwelcome.
A good ole family man sees me
Passing outside the café.
First glance.
Masc—just a sissy?
Still too fem.
Second glance.
The street light
Reflects off my body,
Glimmers on glossed lips,
Dances on racially ambiguous skin,
And passes through his optic nerve.
His gender sorting machine
Arrested by a paper jam.
Complete limbic breakdown.
Red lights, wailing sirens.
Error.
Third glance.
Breathing quickens.
He grows hard.
That thing,
Its glossed lips
Around his cock—
No—I mean—
Fourth glance.
He hates it.
It should be destroyed.
What has come of our world?
Walking around like that?
What if kids see it?
Must be some kind of pervert.
Blood vessels constrict.
Fists clench.
The pressure of his short, unpainted
Nails against rough palms.
Floral perfume
Colors the space between him
And this illegible monstrosity.
Only seconds pass,
The air is still, silent,
And their strides do not even stop;
These images come to him in a flash.
Too quick to distinguish,
They are one.
He fears himself.
My queer body feels
His repressed desires
In the aggressive, puzzled glance.
In another universe,
Where my gender-needle
Was one millimeter too far
One way or the other,
Glossed lips split with blood.
I should probably reapply.