The Queer Femme Manifesto

You were being the best you could have been, and it wasn't enough.

XXIII.

New Ways

You miss her.

You're texting her often and she's a phone call away but you miss her because she's the only thing you don't hate that doesn't hate you back.

You're hyperventilating and banging on the side of the bed you're otherwise paralyzed on because you miss her so badly and everything hurts and won't stop.

You beg her to stop you.

XXIV.

Fast Car

It's an hour after the panic attack you text Esther about leaving.

Your mom put an ultimatum down- stop going out to those type of bars and getting into fights with other women or get out of her house. You didn't say anything, which probably scared her more than you fighting could have. You knew she wasn't going to be talked down with a fight, especially after calming another one of your panic attacks. She loves you, you're pretty sure, but she loves order more, and you have not been orderly enough for her to devote her undying love to.

You float the idea by Esther, with the qualifications of you just being angry and having an outburst about your mother. She doesn't respond at first and you're worried you scared her, and frantically send all sorts of apologetic responses her way, shaking your phone as if it's hiding the reply from you.

Then she responds.

XXV.

Run Away With Me

Her message isn't one. It's five at once.

In it, she details that your mother doesn't have the right of this- even if she loves you- and that you'll burn out if you're not careful. She suggests that when she finds a college that accepts her application, she'll live off-campus because she wants you to move in with her. She justifies it with a lot of things- she'll need someone to help her with life because she's often so weak, and something about queer bitches sticking together that, even in text, sounds so unlike her that it's ridiculous- but you don't really process any of it because the idea makes you cry.

Whether you have to wait a day, a week, a month, or a year, that plan is worth not going to any seedy bars and getting your ass kicked.

XXVI.

Dreams

As you drift off to sleep, you don't feel alone.

When you wake up with your arms where you imagine your co-conspirator in queerness should be, it doesn't feel ridiculous.

You never delete her texts. As a habit, you delete your texts because if you get your bony ass killed by some Proud Boy or angry barfly TERF, any police who care will go through your phone and never see how pathetic you are. These, though... are they real? Are they fantasy? Is this going to happen?

You get up after an hour and still can't answer that.

XXVII.

All Waters

It's not until the weekend is about to end before you feel well enough to visit her in person. It's at her house where, true to her words, her mother is not. She answers the door looking like a Mimikyu, draped in a yellow blanket gracelessly with a lifeless attempt at a smile on her face.

"Hi, Carly," she whispers sweetly.

Goddamn, you love her.

You two retreat to her room, even though you're alone, because it's the safest you feel. You feel a flush of giddiness as you make your escape. Her room is black with drapes and decorations lining the wall with her memories from the various places she lived before being born here. She doesn't own much, but what she owns, she keeps.

She lies on her bed, looking like death. She says that people left her alone during the bar fight after feeling bad for her, but even if she's telling the truth, she looks like they took a pound of flesh first. You swear remorsefully when you look at her, drawing out the vowel of every four-letter word that comes to mind. It's all you can say.

After that, you two don't say much, not even making room for small talk, but she holds your hand. You're not scared to take it. No one can see you here. No one can judge you. No one can judge her. You both are too morose to say anything further, and she's not even pretending to smile anymore.

Your honesty has always scared people more than anything.

XXVIII.

Jezebel

You two sit on her bed, her hands on her knees, your feet on the floor. She asks you why you chose your name. When you take in a sharp breath, she immediately apologizes, but you hold your hand up. You tell her you aren't sure. It just fits you. Probably because you were already a redhead. You never really planned to be Scarlett like she planned to be Esther and to be honest, you're not sure if you wanna stay that way. You just know making any changes now would probably get a lecture from mom and about two months of her forgetting to say it.

You would probably be named Jezebel, as a warning to all the Judeo-Christians out there.

It makes your flaws feel like strengths.

Though you would miss how Esther always calls you Carly. It... is a stretch and a half to get that from Scarlett in the first place, but it's all the more intimate for that.

XXIX.

Elastic Heart

She offers for you to stay the night, but you can't stand the idea of sleeping on the floor just before the next school day, so you apologize and say goodbye. She looks disappointed, but when you meet her eyes she says she'll be okay. She might very well be, but you're not, and you're not sure how she is. A few seconds pass where you stare at Esther, her head cocked up from the bed, eyes giving you permission to leave, waiting on you to give yourself permission as well.

She mumbles a wilted, sleepy I-love-you. You blink, almost surprised to hear it. It's generally implied, not said. Saying it tends to imply the fear that you have lost the love of the other and need to hear it again. You look at your queer trans lesbian co-conspirator and feel so connected to her that you happily say it back, softer than you imagined that you could.

You leave strangely vulnerable, like the night that she danced with you.

You already miss her.

XXX.

The Only Exception

Even wearing a sweater, you're still cold.

You're on a packed bus and feel so alone without her. There are a million eyes here and they all feel like they're staring at you, judging you. When you don't put in the effort to pass, you feel like a spectacle; yet, at the same time, these people will never know you more than the strange looks they could give you. You barely care enough about them to hate them, but after seeing the loveless glares in their eyes, you manage to.

Esther's the only one you don't hate.

She's the only one you let lean on your arm when she's tired. The only one you willingly told your birth name to. The only one you could even think of clubbing with in the first place. The only one who tells you things that you need to hear. The only one who stops the spiral. You're queer, trans, clinically depressed, anxious, and nineteen, and she's the only one who makes that all make sense.

Sometimes she feels like only one you'll ever be remotely comfortable with.

XXXI.

I Put A Spell On You

Esther shows up in a knee-high silver dress and white tights after one of your classes. She's still a little banged up with a black eye, but she passes so well that you remember why you both envy and want her. Just like that, your day is better. Just like that, you're no longer at school. Just like that, you're hers.

XXXII.

Liability (Reprise)

You hold her hand as Esther and her creaky joints bend down onto a bench at a nearby park. Neither of you two brought anything to eat; you're rarely hungry. She jokes about being a load in a way that isn't really joking, especially as she goes on about how you're always helping her body settle down or are nearby to do strenuous tasks for her, tasks you've never paid an individual mind to, just as a whole that confirms that you don't altogether care about lifting a few books or holding her hand when she gets unsteady.

You stop her before she finishes and remind her who she got her ass kicked on behalf of.

She gasps and denies it, even though it makes perfect sense to you. You two argue a bit about whose fault the fight was, with her stubbornness eventually wearing you down like it always does. She tells you that you shouldn't apologize for what others do to you, but you can't really fully buy it until people stop doing things to you.

She coughs. "Besides, the things they were saying about you... I couldn't stand it."

It's a rare sunny day. Despite her pale skin, it complements her.

You kick a pebble. "Because they could say it about you too, right?"

Esther tears up as she shakes her head. "No... because they were saying it about you."

You slump over and bow your head. You have no words for how amazed, how galled you are, that someone cares so deeply about you.

XXXIII.

hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have- but I have it

You realize absently that you missed your history class when you finally decide to, after so many days, ask Esther "did you mean it?"

She knows what you're talking about. She was probably waiting for it to truly feel real in your life. With startling immediacy, she nods. "Of course!"

You take in a sharp breath. This is such a big step, to move in together, that even if you're just reserving a spot you're doing the most grown-up thing you've ever done. As lovely of a fantasy as it is, it feels like a big plan you're going to throw away later, a scheme launched when you were both punch-drunk that now you know the impossibilities of.

She bursts through your fears so hard you snap awake and asks "do you still wanna?" but she cowers anticipating your reaction.

"I still do!" you insist. "It just... Seems like it's a pipe dream." Like it's too good for you. Like you're selfish for wanting it.

"I-I..." She stutters when she's nervous, but after years of speech therapy that's the only time she does. "Th-that's what I'm afraid of too."

The two of you go quiet and don't look at each other.

Esther says "I think a lot of the things I want are pipe dreams sometimes."

You buck up. "Yeah, but we still deserve them," you respond defensively to a knowing mmhmm from her. You slump over and bow your head. "I just... don't know how we're gonna get them. But this..."

Esther looks attentive. "What is it?"

"I really want this, Esther. I want this so badly."

Esther giggles, but her blush is telltale- so much so that you almost read into it too much and outright kiss her. She thinks and says "Then... we won't let it go, Carly." She speaks we, for you both, because she knows you'll agree to anything she suggests for the two of you.

You reach for her hand and grab it tightly. She lets you.

XXXIV.

My own strange path

As the sun gives way to other stars, Esther says she should probably head home, and reluctantly, you agree. Your own mother's probably wondering where you are and you're not gonna give her the indication that you were up to any dykery that she didn't approve of.

The two of you stand up, and you realize how sparse the park is. There's no one in view larger than a speck on the horizon. Just grass, bushes, pavement, and this bench.

That might be what compelled her to kiss you.

It's a soft kiss, as soft as her voice and her breath. It's clandestine by nature, but the way that she teases you seems to know that you want more.

So you kiss harder, hand on her back, lips pressing into hers. You almost don't feel her shaking until she hits your back. You realize her lips are not moving and her voice is frantic, muddled into your mouth so hard that you can feel the vibrations. She hits your back again so you let her go as you piece it together.

"Fuck," you groan, stumbling slightly. For a small girl, she packs a mean punch. No wonder she fights people for you.

"I-I'm sorry!" she cries. "I just couldn't think of another way to get your attention!"

You grumble but don't argue. Esther looks terrified as it is, like she's about to fall apart. Suddenly, you look around and realize that you're in the middle of a public park and your eyes widen at how stupid you were.

"Oh, duh," you say aloud. Grabbing her wrist out of tunnel-visioned desperation, you say "Let's find a place near here first."

"S-s-Scarlett!" Esther all but shrieks.

You let her go, eyes widening. Spooked birds fly away and a few people turn in the distance. Before you can panic and wonder if you triggered her rage, she all but hides into herself, tears in her eyes. You go to hug her with an apology, but she says "D-don't. P-p-please."

You pull away, not sure what's going on but having a deep sense of dread.

"I just..." she starts. "I-I need some time to think. I'm sorry."

Instinctively, you say "Esther, don't apologize."

She looks down again and tears form. "Look," she sniffles. "I'm sorry, I just... need a few days alone. T-to figure things out. I'm s-sorry."

The words hit you in the gut with an acute sense of failure. It takes everything within you to not yell, not argue, not fuck this up any more than you have. You just mumble "Yeah, yeah. I... okay."

The two of you stare at each other remorsefully with your apologies. All of yours aren't enough and she needs to give none of hers. It's okay that she did what she did.

It's just so damn confusing.

"I'll... I'll leave," you offer. Esther waves sadly, out of words. As you walk away, you almost turn back and say an I-love-you, but just before the words escape your mouth, you stop, not wanting to make things worse.

It seems like anything you do will do that.

XXXV.

You're Somebody Else

You take it out on your mother instead.

She says she's signed you up for therapy, but you know better. You know her, so you know the therapist won't understand you. That isn't teen angst either like she says it is. She's tried to take you to therapists before and none of them have understood you. None of them are who you need. They're who she needs.

You black out during it all but as you prepare to sleep you stare at the hole you punched in the wall and all you can remember is snidely demanding to know if she signed Stephen or Scarlett up. She didn't have a response, and the last words you hear in your head are your own. Bitter, hateful. "Get the fuck out of my life".

XXXVI.

A Better Son/Daughter

Your mind is blank as you go to school. You don't see Esther, and you behave through history class.

Your mind is still blank when you come home to a bare room with only furniture in it. A few things are packed in a small box on your bed. No makeup, no conditioner, no mementos, no maps.

A page ripped out of the phone book for homeless shelters sits next to it. There isn't a woman's shelter to be found.

You stop feeling anything but numbness. She's not home. She's like Esther's mom. She no longer exists.

You leave your key on the bed and lovelessly dump the box into a nearby backpack. You never pick up the phone book page. You never wait to argue your case or say goodbye. Spitefully, you resolve to leave her last memory together of you punching a wall and calling out her disrespect towards you.

Too bad it'll also be yours.

XXXVII.

Evening On The Ground

You haven't stolen in a while, so you're a little rusty, but you slowly remember your old tricks when you were a rebellious teenager and people didn't just think you were. You manage to get a few snacks to eat from a mini-mart and nick a tiny sleeping bag from a department store. You're good at playing it cool in the stores, probably because you don't give a fuck about stealing from the bourgeoisie motherfuckers, but partially because you're so numb that you can't even try to be anxious.

At least if you're arrested you get to spend the night indoors in a jail cell instead of spending it shivering sitting up on a park bench with a dividing bar meant to deter homeless people from sleeping. It punishes you for being abandoned, and your only comfort is one of the old varsity sweaters you always threw on pre-Scarlett and never threw out, mocking you for being trans.

You stop trying to sleep on the bench and move to the ground, out of sight as is your instinct. You don't wanna exist to anyone- from spite more than anything.

You've never been suicidal out of pathological spite to the world, but you're not afraid of being found and you're surprisingly okay with that endangering you.

XXXVIII.

Addicted To Love

The memory of Esther is what gets you through the day.

As you go to various shelters too full of women neglected by society to house more, you think of the way her hand felt when you danced.

As you try and establish a little nesting area at the park under a large willow tree on the bark-laden dead grass you can't clean out, you think of her kiss and how you should have been grateful for it.

As you go to your classes like nothing is wrong, you wait to see if she's paid you a visit afterward even though you know she isn't.

When your phone service goes off, you wish you had texted her and let her know about your situation, but even if it were on you're not sure you would. She doesn't need any unnecessary guilt. She doesn't need to feel like she was wrong. So little can break her sometimes, even if she doesn't show it. You won't pass her wounds off to her.

So you go on, yearning for her but accepting that time needs to pass.

Time is too slow for you.

XXXIX

Crowded Places

You settle into the shitty routine of dead grass and bramble a little too much when Esther meets you outside one of your classes and your first thought is fuck, I look like shit. You walk over to her cautiously, not wanting to break anything that might be invading the air between you. There's joy in your heart and a pit that you're afraid that it will all fall through.

There's a wave of people around you. You only see her.

She quietly beckons you forward with a small smile. She doesn't say anything, but you come with her as she starts to walk away, looking back at you as she does.

XL.

Nothing's Gonna Hurt You Baby

When you get to Esther's place, you plug your phone into her charger and punch in the password to her WiFi. She chastises you for letting it die, but she's never really inconvenienced. She lectures you a lot over little things- how dirty you are, how messy you look, that you're not talking to her much- but she never lectures you over anything major.

She asks if there's a playlist that you want to hear.

"Oh hell yeah."

You turn on a playlist called The Queer Femme Manifesto. It sounds more important than it is- a bunch of songs you tend to extrapolate queerness from with very sparse songs from popular queer artists because that's what everyone expects a good queer woman to listen to. Still, it blooms with sapphic energy that makes your copious hairs stand on end.

It's also very immature and pedestrian. It's just a teenage mindset to pretend you're more worldly than you are.

You play it and then look at her expectantly. She just smiles and gestures to a chair in front of her vanity. "We gotta get you cleaned up," she says. "Badly."

"'We'?"