Becoming Best Friends with the
Lady in My Mirror
An autobiographical journal by Carmyn Wilson
My Recent Thoughts
Sir
I get misgendered by strangers fairly regularly, but as a person who doesn’t give a fuck about what pronouns a stranger selected as a good fit, I’m pretty okay with it.
But when someone knows my name or pronouns and calls me something different? That’s disrespect.
There is one person in my life who still regularly misgenders me. Ironically, he never knew me as a he/him human. All of his misgendering is from conclusions he’s arrived at on his own.
Today, after he slipped up, he deflected — telling me my pronouns (she/they) confused him (huh?). Sloppily grasping to be absolved of his mistake. You can be well intentioned and disrespectful at the same time.
We aren’t strangers. He knows my pronouns. So why is it he’s selected the he/him box for me? Did he decide my voice or my mannerisms are “sir”? Or, maybe it’s sexism — that he chalks my skillset up as manly. Gross.
I’ve got two testicles and a backbone stronger than his excuses.
Does that grant me knighthood? Am I Sir Carmyn?
Preparing for a Worst-Case Scenario Anti-Trans Authoritarian Regime
A Guide for Trans & Nonbinary Americans 1. Build Community Find alliance with other queer folks, and well-vetted cis allies. Learn to distinguish danger from discomfort. Community cannot happen in an echo chamber. Be frank with cisgender people about your safety. Reimagine your role outside of capitalism — what skills can you bring to your …
Give Me Trophies When I Win
She paints a pedestal for me,
Then fumes as I step down and flee.
Your idol I refuse to be.
Dearest Daredevil
Today I walked past that fence. The wrought iron is still mashed like a crater, and some of your blood is lingering, fried by the summer sun. Someone left you purple flowers, even though it’s too hot for them to last. Dearest daredevil, I remember the day you died. When your tires screamed, the breeze …
Moderation Smoothie
She’s and like grocery list
Or and like small-plate freedom
Her and is like another pocket on cargo pants
Broken Firework
Underneath a velvet sky
adorned with patient stars
I watch her gaze into my eyes
her soul alight with hope
She looks to me like I’m her sun
On Deadnaming Your Homies
Breaking news, your trans friend’s deadname adds nothing to a conversation. I don’t care what your trans friend used to go by. Actually, I really don’t want to know their deadname! And you shouldn’t either. But Carmyn! I’m telling a story from before they came out! I need their deadname for the story to make sense. Fuck no …
Ouroboros
Skin scorched by steel
Steel forged by man
Wrists seared by rope
Rope spun by man
Trajectory
January one was trajectory. Flame. Combustion. Olympic energy. Short-fuse firework. Goalposts atop mountains. Testosterone sweat on broken-in running shoes. Spring brought sunrise. A new name. A do it anyway attitude. I was avoiding mirrors and typing memoirs into the Google search bar. By May, I was dripping blood. Gut half open, left hand inside, weeding any rules …