When it began to mature, I was terrified.
There was no hiding what I was.
People would stare. They would think they knew what I was supposed to be or do or want. Some would understand, others would look at me like some kind of animal.
Centuries of objectification, symbolization, fanatic sacralization.
Beautiful yet ugly, sacred yet shameful. Mysterious but inferior, immaculate yet disgusting. Desired, yet abhorred.
Just because ideas are ancient doesn’t make them right.
What does that make someone feel, to be born in such a body?
Someone who wants only to be human?
Who looks upon their own physical container and wonders why. A child feeling that pain for the first time and thinking what a curse it is to be born this way. Why do creatures like us carry such burden? What an honor, I’m told.
What an honor. We can be procreators, but never human.
And rising against the voices, the dominant, the brutish, the ancient, we hear our own. Insisting what we are. Perhaps we’re crazy. Perhaps we’re wild. Rabid, diseased beasts. Overstepping the lines we did not set, renouncing our masters. Whispering or snarling what we know to be true, however we can get people to listen.
We are not monsters.
We are human.
We are human.
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A/N: Thoughts while milling around the apartment this afternoon.
Odonata 