compromises.

she says the name doesn’t work. it’s not mechanically broken- it’s just that the aesthetic doesn’t work on her lips, it’s too foreign, too new, too glossy. i apply the name to my own lips anyway and cautiously crawl to compromises and complacency because this is far, far easier than building brick walls out of invisible identities.

the name you chose for her was not for me.

for her, she says, i’ll always be a she, but that she knows that a she isn’t always me. she asks if a he is a possibility. i say i do prefer to be a they, but a he is also now okay. she ponders and pins the pronouns on her shirt to reference later.

the pronouns have changed, but i have not.

she quickly quizzes me for quotas on unquantifiable qualities of enbies. she wants to know if parts do part for this population of people. i say not for me but sometimes for mixed hes and shes and theys.

the sex does not select the solitary sexual stimulation of splendiferous pleasure organs, and parts do or don’t part depending on personal preference.

she nods and i still don’t know where i stand.