bitter narratives.

09: bi-gendered heartbreaker.

Darling Mayna,

I met you during the darkest summer of your life.

Even though the sun shone insistently on that June afternoon, the clouds that loomed above you were low enough for me to notice them and offer you a drink.

And with a blink of your eyelashes that had that Rapunzel complex I more than adored, I was shoved, head first, into the cold bath that was your world. And I held my breath as I explored it.

I smoked my first ever joint with you. And I snorted and wheezed and chortled as you explained your life to me. Of how you lived with the wind.

Of how you followed the sun and chased the nights. Of how clouds repulsed and  frightened you.

I still remember your face when I said you were a strong woman, the determined streak that instantly coloured your eyebrows and although I know you were too self-destructive to be conceited, I'd never seen you more alive than in that moment you defended yourself.

As you explained to me that regardless of your vagina or your breasts you were not a woman.

I asked you if you were a man and I remember the way you snorted at me. As you sunk into yourself and you told me you were neither and you told me you were both.

And God knows at that point I did not know if this was a nonsensical conversation that was induced by the weed I so cowardly smoked and you so destructively puffed.

But researching the term you used has never made me feel closer to a person in my life. Bi-gender, you called yourself.

And before I could ever truly tell you that I needed to help you more than you needed the help.

You were gone.

Probably chasing the wind. Or some other girls skirt. Or you were probably under the stars. Dead or alive.

And you were also one of the first to make me feel something in such a long time.

Maybe that's why I was also relieved you ran, before I did.

I was glad you were the coward so I could pretend to be the victim.