This bed is a ship

This bed is a ship is a sporadically updated internet journal, 
a home for odd scraps of writing.

December 2, 2016 (written for [Trans]formation)

confession:
whenever I am taking up space in a space made officially queer
not just in practice but in title, in queers only
I am seized by the panicked certainty
that I’m not queer enough to be there
in any of the relevant ways

because I don’t feel like a woman
but I sometimes feel like a femme
or like a permanent drag
or like a circus clown

and so people look at me and see long hair and lipstick
and the stubble on my partner’s cheeks
the broad shoulders on his tall frame
they recall the man before that
they forget the one before

they do not hear my thoughts
they do not know that no woman I have ever fucked or loved
has deigned to date me
to make me hers
despite my best efforts

they do not know that when I picture my body
it is exactly the same except
not defined by illness, or by anyone else
and maybe I have abs
and my hair is ten inches longer
and my dick six

and I say I changed my name to be more easily googled
and I guess that’s true
but as time goes on it gets less so

and as I get older I get less butch but more masculine
whatever that means
like I want to put on a skirt and interrupt you in a meeting
I don’t know

I am feeling not only a little adrift
but like my writing is truly suffering from being this direct
like I’m embarrassed, like it’s crass
like I don’t have the right to get up and say
hello my name is Sid Branca and I’m genderqueer
and you can use they and their when you talk about me
because you and I and anyone with eyes most days
we all know I’m femme as fuck

and while we say presentation and identity are not the same
if you’ve been around for a minute you may have noticed
that if you were born with a vagina and you like to wear dresses and kiss boys
it doesn’t matter how much hair you grow out
or how many girls or how many more complicated constructions you are kissing
or how many more complicated constructions you build yourself into
and destroy and build again
you will be seen over and over again as straight and as a woman

even if in your mind you’re not even human
but more like something that fell like a meteor in a field
or crawled out of a tree, all sticky with sap

I picture myself a thing made out of mud and whispered over
bits of sapling trees and string
or the workings of igneous rock
or a robot built out of spare parts in a desolate future
where we don’t have time to give a shit about gender
because we are busy scouring the desert for water

or I come from an alien planet where all sex is telepathic
and genitals are things that morph with thought
and not a fixed item to be compared with your fashion sense
to determine which diversity grants you can apply for
or who yells at you in the street
but when I look to the oracle of the internet
to show me a reflection of myself
to see what I should call me
I google genderqueer and I do not see an ocean the size of a body
or a person carved from wood and given life through sheer will

I scroll through masculine people, whatever that means,
who have vaginas and short haircuts like I used to
and I see beards paired with lipstick
and truly they are all so beautiful and handsome and good

but I’m not genderqueer enough to be here
because the bodies that I see the most of myself in
are those of certain trans women
which is surely some kind of offense
some kind of thing I should not say
when you consider that when I was born they said it’s a girl

even though in my fantasies they say
dear god what is that thing
it must have come from the crash site
or they say, look what I made at school today
or they gasp quietly into the laptop night
because finally, after all these years,
they found the extremely specific porn they were looking for
and they wept