Anarchist Mae

Random writings of a terminally online trans girl.

Headlights approach, what will they think of this school boy walking along the side of the road in the depth of the night? Will they stop and force me back home?

Headlights pass, did they even see me? That seems impossible, but they're still driving away. Despair got me this far, I keep walking, tail lights fade into the distance.

Maybe when I get there I won't have to go to school for a while, maybe things will be different somehow? I don't know, but it feels like I'm escaping. I need to escape.

I know this road so well, I have driven down it with my father so many times, down the windy parts, through the sweeping bends and the long straights.

Ahead somewhere is the dirt road to my fathers house, I keep walking, looking for the sign. What will I do when I get there? Should I knock on the door?

Almost there now. Can I call this home?

Three girls on a trampoline, just messin' around One is younger and one is older, the other is a boy

Now they jump high in the air, not a care at all We just are who we are, nobody can take that away

As the years go on, and the girls drift apart One is younger and one is older, the other is a man

Now I wonder, do they remember who I am We are not are who we were, time has taken that away

As the years go on, they come back together One is younger and one is older, the other is a woman

Now we all know, there were three girls on a trampoline

There was a time when I was young I thought I'd be a girl

Then life got tough and I got hurt I put it all out of mind

Some time later and none the wiser I was hiding in plain sight


There was a pain I didn't know I dared not give it time

Then life got tough and I got hurt I was at my breaking point

Some time later and none the wiser I was struggling to just be


There was a message that I heard I couldn't pretend not to be

Then life got good and I got better I realised who I was

Some time later and much the wiser I saw myself as a girl

If it were possible To alter that variable And change the immutable

If it were possible I'd alter that variable And be who I want to be Not who I was born to be

Instead I'll lay here And wish to be a girl Hate that I'm a boy


If it were possible To alter that variable And change the immutable

If it were possible I'd alter that variable And be who I want to be Not who I was born to be

Instead I'll cry here And wish to be a girl Hate that I'm a boy


If it were possible To alter that variable And change the immutable

If it were possible I'd alter that variable And be who I want to be Not who I was born to be

Instead I'll stay here And wish to be a woman Hate that I'm a man

What I wouldn't do to escape To alter that variable And change the immutable

It was already unbearably hot, the dust from the dirt road filled the air as my father drove away. My mind felt almost as heavy as my packed school bag, full of books I'd never read and half completed assignments.

The bus would be here soon. There was no escaping this, the next nine hours of hell, nobody waiting to whisk me away to safety, nobody waiting to do anything good.

At least there was the bus. A set of bookends for my shitty days, a respite from the judgement of my peers and of my father, a place where nobody would dare touch me or yell at me lest they face the wrath of driver Bob.

Arms gnarled with age and sun, Bob was the authority on the bus, not feared so much as respected. Bob drove every day with the radio tuned to the AM, happily listening to the same Billy Joel and Marvin Gaye songs, sometimes even humming along.

Bob didn't care much about what happened on the bus, just so long as the kids sat down and didn't talk too loud, he was happy.

That's how I came about my strategy, if I sit close to Bob, nobody can mess with me, sure there would be the occasional shove as people got on or got off, and sometimes things were thrown, but behind or next to Bob was safe.

The country side moved on by, the same houses, fields and trees, the same me, numb to everything, content to just sit for a while and not think and be calm.

First past the Eckerts farm, our closest neighbours, their kids went to a different school, a Christian school, where poor Robbie, gay as all hell apparently had once gone. Before he was gone.

Then past the Daniels farm, not that you could really call it that nowadays, it's hard to run a farm when you're stuck in a wheelchair.

Up past the chicken farms, they always stank like something unbelievable, rows upon rows of chickens crammed into sheds in this weather?

Finally the town approaches, and so does my anxiety. How many times will I get yelled at by teachers today? Where can I hide during recess and lunch?

How long until I can get back on the bus.