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Unless I identify myself, no one’s the wiser. I’m unclassified. What you see is all you never get , or less than you expect. Depending. Mutated, I am two countries with an unmediated border.North and south. Heart and soul.

I occupy an impossible space at the intersection of two lives. One man’s. One woman’s. Both mine. I exist suspended above an invisible border made tangible in a body that belongs on neither side. East or west. Where past had form, the present has lost all meaning. A question of sex. Not gender. The body intimate, without validation, becomes abstract. Academic. Inhabited. But not fully lived in.

There is a whole world in which I hold no sexual currency. My pockets are empty. I walk alone.

On this path, a line is crossed, beyond which there’s no turning back. You move on towards a new name. A new face. A new life. And one day, years later, you look over your shoulder and your past has been erased. Devalued and denuded. Decades no longer belong to you. Silenced, you’ve lost your voice. You measure time in half-lives. Seek some measure of dual life-ness. Or in-between spaces. In hollows. On hilltops.

And you ask yourself: Are we there yet?

You are. And you never will be.

 

 

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Joseph Schreiber is a writer based in Calgary, Canada. His work has been published in a variety of literary sites and publications including Quarterly Conversation, Minor Literature[s], and RIC Journal. He edits reviews and nonfiction for 3:AM Magazine and tweets @roughghosts 

 

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