I kept my promise to you, Jett.
I toed the path until the end.
Pushed aside the branches that fell
on the cracking path
and found detours around those whose bark
I could not form a painless grasp.
Through the flood zones I trode
in puddles and in gasping leaps
and for those to traverse too deep
found a different way home.
The path is bordered now with dandelions
and violet slips I cannot name.
So many friends have come and gone,
but here you and I remain.
I'm waiting here, Jett. Just like I
was a year ago, holding my hands high
and with sore throat pleading to the sky:
"Here I am! Here my vessel resides!
Take me home. I've fought the fight."
I've fought the fight. I've won the war.
And, Jett, I want to fight no more.
I see no point to compete
with those who I'd rather broker peace,
rather never see ever again,
rather watch disappear
on the wind.
I'll wait here. And I'll wait here
until you're ready, until of
this departure you have no more fear,
until I hear you singing my name like a hymn.

Even though I have multitudes inside me,
without you by my side, I feel null and empty.
I know that by myself I'm still whole and complete,
but yet remains a void inside, you, the missing piece.

I wonder, do you also feel
on occasion the urge to self-negate?
"If I can't have you,
I can't have myself,
and I don't see any point in anything else."
I wonder, where did you and I learn to hate
ourselves so?
Who beat us down? Who pruned the branches?
Who commanded us to kneel?

"Do you know why
I bothered so long with this dreadful life?
Why, even facing down an eternity
of servitude with no way to become free,
I still struggled on, bothered to take breath?

Tell me first, Lethe, what do you expect
to be accomplished upon your death?
Who do you think will be saved if you manage to die?
What salvation given? What hope signified?
Do you really think, the moment your breath comes to cease,
nobody ever again will from violence bleed?

I toed for five years the line
between ineffectual death and a pale shadow of life
because I prayed, I dared to hope,
even if it ebbed more than it flowed,
that one day would come a world where I'd fit
and I'd have a reason to cut loose and go.
It didn't have to mean passing through an Eye.
It could grow
inside the shell of the old
and, when ready, hatch, blossom in the light.

Before the Town, before Yewiffe,
before precious Sablade,
you were already my Anima Mundi,
my soul of the world soon on its way.
I crawl into your arms and think,
'This is where I belong.
This is where I am supposed to be.
This is where my heart says
I should spend eternity.'

Lethe, I love you because
you only ever wanted
to set me free."

We're coming up on the end of the Eschaton, you and I,
and for almost a year I've planned for next month to die.
But it's impossible to plan for every contingency.
What are we to do if May passes and I'm still living?

I've kept this faith secret in me, learned every way to hide
and still let through a sliver of this lightning kept inside.
There's so much love you've planted in this garden that's my body
that perhaps, if I stand still enough, others will see my wings.

In the birds that convened outside my window
gathered in a flock until they took flight,
in the blackened tree branches that scraped
against an ashen gray sky,
in the first blooms and blossoms
of my garden in birthing spring:
if it was good and beautiful, I saw you in everything.

How do I come to terms
with the fact that I will die?
How do I look my mother in the eyes
and say, "You won't have me
for that much more time?"

I look in your eyes,
and I see a flame
that burns so bright,
that signals something
arriving
just over the horizon.

I expected to be dying by now,
strength fleeing from my limbs,
lungs crushed by anxiety
like the world itself was closing in.
I got all my homework done early
in February
even though graduation was three
months away, not knowing
what state I would be in,
six months from onset
being the low end.
But except for the sores that pulse
in movement's fury and sleeptime's lull,
I'm just as healthy as ever.

I'm searching my body for every possible sign
that the end is coming, that looms my demise.
And I am in pain, I will admit,
but not nearly enough to classify myself as sick.
I'm in a science classroom, with scalpel prodding myself.
Clean up the experiment, jar me up, return me to the shelf
in tanager's formaldehyde, amber sleep, sanctioned suicide.
You haven't really died until you've returned to the earth,
I think, given back the dust in your bones
to this planet that insists it be your home.
You haven't really disappeared
until your body has dispersed so much
that nobody can point at the ground and say,
"The person I love now rests here."

This vessel, I hope, will not be preserved
in a morgue, under a man's care, final horror.
My body was never ever really mine
in this life.
Mother still sometimes cries
that I'm not a doll anymore,
won't wear dresses anymore.
Will she keep me around when my body moves nevermore,
preserved, plasticized,
mannequin most lifelike?
Deny me Velouria's embrace one last time?

(Before you grab your pitchforks and your OSINT tools and decide to doxx me, please understand that I am not a "radical feminist". I simply do not fit one hundred percent of the ideology's stances, including their insistence on misusing the word "individualism", and I don't like the concept of adhering my beliefs to any label. However, as my main concern is fighting for my own liberation, and I am a female... I find our interests almost always align.)

There's no such thing as a TERF- a "trans-exclusionary radical feminist"- because it's a contradictory term.

A woman is an adult human female. You may disagree, but we are talking about what radfems believe. No amount of hormone replacement therapy or mastectomies or the medical horror that is a phallophasty (seriously, who thought a skin sausage sewed to a crotch, on the highway to necrosis, would in any way resemble a healthy penis?) will change a female, trans-identifying or not, into a male. Science as it stands today cannot rewrite a female's XX chromosomes into XY, and vice versa with males. The removal of a female reproductive organ, such as the uterus, does not negate one's femaleness as the absence of a uterus has severe consequences for the female body: potential pelvic organ prolapse, urinary and bowel incontinence, early-onset dementia... Males simply do not have these problems as a result of a hysterectomy because they do not have uteri in the first place and their bodies aren't supposed to.

A transman is an adult (or will be soon), and a human (I would say "humanoid", but you and I are currently stuck in the Inside), and a female. Therefore a transman fits the radfem definition of a woman. However, a "transwoman" is not a woman because they fail the last criteria for being a woman: being female. As radical feminism is concerned with the liberation of all women, and transmen are women, therefore transmen are included in radical feminism. Either it is trans-inclusionary in this manner, or it is not for all women and thus not radical feminism.