Little Light writes that It is time for us to acknowledge that our love is an act of war.

I say let’s call down the thunders, then. Let’s stand and fight. Let’s own that our love is a matter of artillery, and fire salvo after salvo. Let’s hold hands and kiss and fuck and dance while all over, rock shears from the cliff-faces of their shuddering world and it frays at the seams. Let’s defiantly exist, exist hard, right next to them, public, brazen, beautiful. Let’s drill and march and right on their doorsteps let’s have unacceptable bodies and loud music and food whose aromas they find foreign and offensive. Let’s fucking sing.

We can call it jubilation. They can call it war. Either way, the results are the same. We succeed, and walk hand in hand into a new world where our very existence is not considered a violation, or we do not–and are no longer in a position to care.

Its a quiet battle of attrition. They wear me out. They tell me I’m not manly enough, that I am not allowed to behave in certain ways, because those gestures and words betray the inauthentic nature of my masculinity. I am still a woman, or even a girl in their minds.
Every day my voice gets a little deeper, my face gets a little hairier, and I become more monstrous in their eyes.
They must stop me! How can I truly be happy like this?
That every day as they redouble their efforts to convince me to step back I grow a little stronger, a little less vulnerable. Physically, emotionally, my muscles get harder, and my mind gets firmer.

I wont back down from who I truly am. I will not butch up to convince you I am a man, nor will I allow you to treat me as a woman. I am myself, a beautiful gargoyle with a heart of stone. I care not for your insistent and terrified mewling. I will not be convenient. I will not be neat. Your binary will not cage me.