I awoke to wrists that could fit between the spokes of a wheel. They still hadn’t thickened, meaning I’ll have to find patience– and quick. I’d been lying about the width of my shoulders, the breadth of my chest– trying only to throw myself, but to the rest it showed in a bagginess at the hips, a sagging in the arms. It was this and other forms of harm- holding my mouth in a cautious frown, drawing in my rounded cheeks, shallowing my belly into a basin– these were the many ways I forced my form into more of a man’s. But for the first time I’m ordering a shirt in the right size. I click to confirm the purchase and tell myself the shirt will fit the swells in my arms just right, will hug my hips and flatter me with its stripes. I pour a tall bourbon over ice. I will sip until my brow emerges from between my boyish knees and my eyes let fall their glare. Maybe now I won’t stop halfway there.
JP Hyzy is a queer writer living in Chapel Hill, NC. Their work has been published by Cellar Door, Bean & Leaf, and Carolina Creates Writers. They get paid to stick electrodes on peoples’ faces.