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Chasing scars and other lies
Cut across his chest is healed scar, a mark of pride and determination that only he knows the meaning of. Some bitter hack sees his joy, stripping away all context, and plasters the image all over their social media, claiming that his pride is mutilation, that his core identity is false. In doing so, they peel back him to some base her, defaming him and infantilising a fabricated girl of their own imagining. Such is their hate towards him, such is their confected concern for this false girl, that they brand anyone who supports and uplifts him as a groomer and child abuser, all the while forgetting that he exists. Chasing scars and building other lies is their game, regardless of the emotional cost to their supposed victim. Welcome to the world of exclusionary feminists, where the only women’s voices that matter are their own, and where anyone who affirms their identity is misled or a rapist in waiting.
Chilly mornings cloak Nottingham, the sort that hang around in the shadows long after the sun has chased the frost away. Standing at a bus stop scrolling through social media replies ping every so often to shout comments, and then the first surgical image appears. Comments of abuse float as sewage beneath, all joy as frosted as the air, a calculated jibe at trans affirmation that refuses to sink out of sight, just like a turd. They keep coming, a cacophony of astroturfed outrage; it could be a…
