MARKED IN three places by razor burn, I scratch the bump closest to my nostrils. The Bieberstache is migrating.
I’m weak with hunger, but when I push him down and bite his neck, sometimes he can’t get up. My iPhone band doesn’t slip down my arm anymore.
Hands on my hips, I frown at my running skirt and the hairy legs below it. The hair climbs past my knees, merging with the jungle. I shouldn’t leave the house like this.
A voice inside me growls—in pain and in pleasure—“There’s no going back.”
I walk out the door, skirt, hair and all. Fuck it.
I am were-queer.

I wrote this in 2015, a few months after starting testosterone. It became my favorite micro-essay from that time.

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