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Gender Euphoria

Gender euphoria is standing in a women’s dressing room wearing all men’s clothes, down to the boxers. It’s learning there’s a ‘t-word’ that’s isn’t tomboy, it’s trans. Gender euphoria is the first feeling of handsome in a “too-square-to-be-feminine” face. Gender euphoria is a t shirt that cuts just right, the binder a friend gave, glitter nail polish, hair barrettes for the first time, cuffed pants, bra-less titties, a shaved head, wife pleasers and leather, overalls, nudity, time alone, the smell of menthol cigarettes, dangly earrings, vivid hair, couch sleeping, shared spaces and clothes, borrowed makeup and new to me shoes. Gender euphoria is correct pronouns, correct pronouns, correct pronouns, correct pronouns, correct pronouns. When we first met, when I reintroduced myself, after fuck ups, on my dating profile AND my ID. To your mom and your dad AND your grandma. Gender euphoria is the correct name, spoken in love by chosen family. It is a deadname that most people don’t know any more cause our introductions do not include “they used to go by”, because anyone that knows our deadnames know they’re called deadnames cause we take any we know to the grave. Gender euphoria is the gall to wear a ball gown and pleasers to run errands because before last year an invisibility cloak would have been more fitting but now I recognize there’s royalty in my walk and I’ll be damned if others don’t know too.




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