the pinball machine

It had been about two years since I shaved my head.

I was curious about what it would feel like to have hair again, so I bought a long, dirty blonde wig. The hair, styled with bangs and scattered with platinum blonde highlights, was wavy and dynamic. It captured how my lifelong hairstyle might’ve looked on its best day. I put it on, not knowing where to fasten the pins since I had no hair for them to grasp onto, and looked in the mirror. Instant, full-body friction. I sighed, feeling uncomfortable and confused, and said, “I feel like I’m in drag?”

french doors

just a story
about an emperor who didn’t want an empire
who always had to paint on their smiles
and dance around in desecrated drag
while the audience clapped and laughed

i always loved the stage but i never made it
past the door, people always took their masks off
and i didn’t know what for

After that, I continued trying on wig after wig - short, long, blonde, silver, brunette, pink, wavy, straight - searching for…something. At last, I felt it. Euphoria. The long, slightly curly, brunette and pink ombre wig was the exact hair I would have loved as a kid, listening to emo and punk music in the half of the parking lot the girls were allowed to play in at recess.

Honestly, I thought I had arrived. I thought I had finally found the truest version of myself; after a long and arduous journey, I had summited my personal mountain of femininity and was ready to plant my flag.

Success (c. 2008, age 16)

music theory, collage, 2026, woods.

The forest,
stale and cragged,
stifles me,
hindering my ambitions.

I stumble through
the dense vegetation
attempting to pursue
previously failed goals.

Though these paths
should be familiar,
I fail to recall
the right one to take.

The trees,
made of stiff bark,
seem to threaten me,
and I start running.

My eyes close,
and for a minute,
I am flying.

This ends quickly.

An unearthed root
steps in my path,
and I fall,
slivering my face on broken twigs.

The paths are deceiving,
and in their trickery,
they mock me.

They laugh,
their branches
seemingly pointing out
my insecurities.

And then,
I see a break
in the cover of
the menacing trees.

This sight,
in contrast of my path
was familiar;
I’d been there many a time.

A mountain
towers over me.

The journey before
lost in time.

A deep breath
that grasps the inner core of my body
steadies me,
and I begin to climb.

A ceaseless stream
of sunlight
radiates above.

The handholds,
though close in reach,
are far,
far away in sight.

My hand gropes
for a familiar grip,
to anchor
what seem to be
the last pieces of my strength.

I use all of my ability
to cajole the earth
into reluctant cooperation.

It abides,
propelling me upwards,
completing my journey.

Success.

I now know I was attempting to play with my own personal archetype of femininity - the one I had curated, costumed, and performed for decades - one last time. But, what I didn’t realize was this archetype was a blueprint. It was a stock character.

I realized that the mountain’s pinnacle was, ultimately, only a single point.

If I stood there, on my mark, if I walked back to that x taped onto the stage to the sound of someone shouting, “Places!,” I would never be able to move again. And the point really only fit one foot. I would be in an arabesque penchée for the rest of my existence, trying and forever failing to turn myself into the plot line I was never scripted to breathe in anyway. An x-axis without a why. A princess never allowed to put her foot down without Prince Charming returning that damn glass slipper.

The fool’s cliff was the edge of the stage - the one that had been built for only half of me to perform on.

It was magic - the “death saw” trick no one witnessed - an invisible mimage.

I wasn’t ready to stop performing. Or maybe I was. I just didn’t know how. There was no where else for me to go with the role. I had given everything to it. It was enough to finally see that there was an exit door.