Haunted inside my dreams of the fear of you. Becoming different. Disappearing under a heavy brown coat willing to hide the halfening, but rebirth, also, of your sore round nipples, the absence of which neither of us have ever known before. I dreamt it wasn't too terrible a thing, that I could hold you to my own slinking, daredevil bosom, and know you, still. Asking, embarrassed by asking, where it is you are, and what's become lost on me. It's the fat, grease-heavy fear of not knowing, of imagining you the same, and worrying I'm still a child for coming up with the image. How could you be same? And yet, how any different? You, whom I have known since always, whose obscene, self-surprising belly laughter filled our rooms before the uprising?
You, who - were you to disappear today, I would miss you like rivulets of freshwater and wine goblets. You, whose prospect of losing makes me come home with head bowed and glistening cheeks, tail snug between my legs which I've parted often, and not for a parade of honorable men, and say,
Please, God,
while he folds me into shape into a different other girls, and catches my fleas, and licks off my tears.
The absence of breasts, the flushing of sharp blades - have I been a fool not to listen to my dreams, before? Is it the end of conflict, when they were not even your scissors, but mine? Or is it a witnessing that goes on inside my head, but only when it's sleeping, only when the eyes are lit dark, a witness to this vanishing of self, of losing me to become some insipid other? Somebody said to me once, I could never properly know how to love, always losing myself too much in another.
And I, with my erroneous pack, my heavy mouth like martyred infidels, knowing exactly what was meant. I lose myself too easily into others. So do I, little brother.
Less hounded by the act, and more so by its ramifications, inevitable in the light. I dreamt the locks came off the bathroom door, and seeped out and through my fear of what I may inadvertently shear. I feared you'd be mad at me over scarpering with your good blades, except they turned out, a trick of the eye, to have been mine always, and would you be as worried as I was of the consequences, or simply mourn the loss of good steel? And can I still be humble, if I now wear my hair out long, and am I struggling still with this Delilah taking hold of my bones, digging painful welts under my fingers?
Don't go. I am selfish, and small. I've lost too much already. I talk a good game of strength and integrity, yet when push comes to shove and daylight dwindles, crawl back under my covers a threadbare cottage mouse. If I am scared of looking you in the face once you've changed, must that mean I love you any less?
A little while ago, 
