Discharge

In its natural state, air insulates,

is a gatekeeper of current

travelling from sky to

sea, or mulch

Electrons born on either side of the void

air maintains

‍

Should embrace their inert state

But dreams of migration

Don’t die

And

Sometimes, the difference in

charge,

between ground

And cloud

generates an

Electric field

Strong enough to overcome

air’s dielectric barrier

A spark

Comes down to impulse,

To the one electron

depressed enough

To think “f*ck this”

‍

I remember it well, oscillating like AC,

between doomscrolling anti-trans reddit and the eBay checkout,

where in my cart, was a silicon packer,

for copper to bronze skin tones.

‍

Published 1 hr ago/

It’s just so easy these days for kids, to be preyed upon, to get in touch with wackjobs- that’s the source of the issue.

“Silicon may irritate skin. Returns will not be granted

citing common side effects, which the consumer has been

prior-to-commitment-informed-of. Contact dermatitis is not a valid claim to a refund”

Two months ago, my girl was perfectly girly.

Then out of thin air, she starts tucking her hair into a baseball cap

and wearing these oversized cargo shorts everywhere.

‍

One morning, she leaves the house, flat as the side of a skyscraper.

‍

Turns out she’s ordered what she calls a ‘binder’ online.

‍

Did what any good parent would.

I confiscated all her devices, cut off her phone data.

‍

Express?

Shipping in 5-7 business days?

Or wait a month more?

I get it, kids live for novelty

That’s why this strange world of gender-bending

is so exciting to them

That’s why good parents like us,

can’t take chances

No access is safer,

that’s my opinion

Close every open channel

/ When current flows through air,

Accelerated electrons

Hit oxygen and nitrogen

Like cannonballs,

Ionising molecules

Airs becomes plasma

Begins to conduct

Reaches 5x the temperature

Of the sun’s surface /

‍

When the packer arrived, I was so anxious to see if I’d bought the right size,

been too ambitious, ordering medium,

that I put in my pants,

still bubble wrapped.

A mixture of goosebumps,

and sweat hives networked

down my tingling inner thighs

‍

At 5x the temperature

Of the sun’s surface,

The arteries bolting down-cervix, down-thigh

Dumping blood into

the soles of my feet

Began to melt

‍

Those first few weeks wearing my custom-made penis in public were a booming success, restored my confidence completely.

Suddenly, nearly everywhere I went, the general public affirmed me, assigned me male, or close enough.

Grumpy pensioners waiting in line with me at the pharmacy, the staff at my local library, even giant, jacked, blackout drunk tradies swaying in their scuffed gum boots, on late night buses, registered the bulge and corrected themselves.

For the first time in a long time, I could move through the world with certainty, that “he” and “him” and “son” were guaranteed.

Naturally, with this newfound freedom; hypervisibile; but seen the way I wanted to be seen.

I began to take bigger and bigger risks.

‍

One brazen morning, I decided to wear the packer out to brunch with family.

Mum, who over the years, had earned the nickname “paparazzi”, insisted on immortalising the gathering.

Only took an hour of fussing, before she she was satisfied, that we were all dressed and presenting our best, appropriately posed,

and grinning, believably, for the photo.

She backed away, and zoomed out, to get us all,

head to toe,

in shot.

Her finger hovered on the button,

We

waited

for the flash.

It did not arrive.

Instead, the camera

tumbled from her hands

Cracks slashing

the screen as it

struck the ground.

She yanked me aside, and before she even spoke,

I felt regret, like a long-repressed stool,

forcing its way through my pipes, esophagus to colon.

‍

“Go to the bathroom, right now” she demanded

“And take that ridiculous

lump in your shorts out,

And flush it”

‍

“But-”

The finger she raised to her lips,

silenced me

immediately.

‍

Her voice dropped to a whisper

“I will not take this photo…

In fact, I refuse to be…associated…

with you    

‍

”wearing”

‍

whatever the hell that is you’re “wearing”

‍

she sputtered

‍

“Get rid of it. Or I’m taking you home.”

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/The channel of a spark

stays open,

Until its plasma cools

The bolt, the light

The opportunity

On average, milliseconds, less

In life/

‍

After brunch, for hours in my room,

robbed of my iPod and headphones,

Asked to reflect on how my actions,

Or more so, my appearance

Could draw negative attention,

could make us all targets,

I ruminated.

‍

Had the leap I’d taken,

Out of atomic orbit

been nothing more than

A discharge of excess pubertal agitation?

Was I just a victim of the

influence of the

queer blogs I’d been reading

and vlogs I’d been binging?

‍

I fished the packer from my boxers

and squeezed

it like a stress toy.

It glistened, melted in my grasp.

The shame was hot.

But more pain than erotic.

And the packer, aglow,

So innocent,

I couldn’t bear to look at it.

I wrapped it tight, in an

old blanched

tea towel,
a burial sack,

I crept into the kitchen,

opened the cupboard under the sink
And hurled it at the bin.
It bounced off the rim

And into the cube

and landed SMACK

The lid fell shut, and the sound

made me jump.

And I stood there,

Dizzy

Panting in relief

‍

That night,

I found myself unable to sleep.

I’d managed to steal back my iPod and had been scrolling, self-pitying, when, like providence,

a penis,

filled my screen.

‍

It was censored well-enough to remain unflagged,

posted by a transmasc teen my age.

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If you’re looking for a sign to get yourself a willy,

this

post

is

FOR

you.

The one I bought is hollow so I can pee

through it at the urinals

And “F*ck it”, I’ve decided to keep using it

Even though my brother HATES it when I do

I feel

‍

free.

‍

/Sometimes lightning strikes
the same place twice.
Channels reopen

When a second bolt traverses the same path,
it meets less resistance,
path lubricated,  

by the memory of heat

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Draped in my doona, I turned the knob of the back door

gently and slipped out, tiptoeing through

hip-high greens

to the red-lidded outside bin.

I dove in,

tore open the black plastic of the

bin-bag,

hands shaking, searching blindly.

Too hard, too floppy, too fluffy, that’s not it

‍

Finally, I got of hold of a rod, of the right texture

And circumference

‍

When I wrenched it out, millipedes went flying

In all directions.

It was a biological hazard,

gummy foreskin,

a natural magnet for all kinds

gunk and slime,

seminal fluids slicked.

‍

But live still.

Surging.

My fingertips ionised, I

slid the packer slowly,

into my boxers.

And let it recharge me.

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