Elliot Boodhan

overhearing a bookstore conversation

okay, but if men could get pregnant i’d kill myself. i mean, how would the baby come out? my dick? nah bro, hahaha.
 
the harsh pitter patter of feet bounced off the walls within the depths of my core, attempting to drown out laughter that fell two octaves below my own.
 
he said i’d kill myself with a snort of indignation, as though the man beside him had spoken some taboo. the two posited the feasibility of male birth: how one would fall pregnant. how one would give birth. their questions, out of context, seemed to me a world of confused satire.
 
when he says it, a hint of misogyny permeates the air, infiltrating the lungs of every woman, choking them like mustard gas. when i say it, the words are a culmination of years of dysphoria, detachment of my body from my brain, a never ending intrusion of the thought that i will never be or seem enough. it is a chilling fear of revelation and prejudice which seeps into my own heart, clotting each atrium, each valve, shut.
 
he said i’d kill myself with a snort of indignation, as though he’d never considered the space around him, and hadn’t shamed numerous young women in doing so. as though the thought, i’d kill myself, had never crossed another man’s mind.
 
when he says it, he doesn’t mean it. not like i’ve meant it. not as some fantastical joke, but with fingers scraping against my insides until i’ve bled. with a desire for children, and a terror of housing one within myself. with the daily sensation of packers and rib crushing binders bruising my body’s most delicate curves.
 
this stranger’s words pull me back to an hour-long shower, sitting on the tile, crying as a “friend” leaves through the back door. a faded memory resurfaces where i crawl away, unaware that the conquest’s commentary will follow me throughout high school.
 
this man, with his blonde hair and toothy grin, is a stranger to me. unaware of his perfect american smile, his perfect american eyes, and his perfect american skin; all of which allow him to blurt out the most outrageous things in a public space, with no fear for his safety. meanwhile, i am shrunk by his passing comment because of the difference between who i am, and who he is. i am shrunk by the thought that there is danger in my existence.