black swans
Every account here is fiction and weaved with the shattering realities that women and children have long saturated in silence and fiery rage. It is a mirror and a love letter clapback to the guilt, shame, and isolation that can thrive within abuses. This is an unspooling to the cycle of violence, and it is dedicated for all survivors.
i.
In the reflection, I am a nine-year-old girl with fangs out and gills embroidered on my neck. My mom says I am a siren in a girlhood mortal body; it’s a curse often weaved in the serenity of ancient folktales. Perhaps siren is a dangerous word, it is a slithering battle-lullaby of deception. My voice howls with chlorine resentment, it doesn’t scale its clamoring notes to love and glamorous lure. I am a mermaid with my iridescent scales on my legs, purple-print and sewed with wine-tinged knuckles. I ask her a question that tides like ocean waves on her rubied heart, the white foams lapping over the exposed wounds of steep-rock and long-endured abuse, ‘When will you leave him? He doesn’t love us anymore, Mama.’ She teeters on the kitchen table, a sandcastle gnawed into glitter erosion. It winks against the fluorescent light — the blue orbs of tears with their tolerance-rot and false optimism carved from the deepest trench of brainwashed possibilities.
ii.
In the gold gleaming hallways, I am a high school enigma of perfection. A-grade student and red lips ready to cut. I tug at the sleeves of my pink cardigan, pulling at the loose thread to draw comfort of protection. My boyfriend drapes his arms around my bird-soft shoulders, and it feels like my wingspan is being crushed. I look at his earth-toned eyes, and all I could see is the magma intensity of his so-called love. I swish my tongue inside my cheeks, and I could still taste the remnants of bitterness and word assaults. The pastel bouquets and silver smiles are all a distraction; they shimmer moonbow and faux affection to hide the obsidian soul writhing within his boy-body. He declares me a slut when I wear the Burberry skirt my Dad had compensated for. He informs me with an icepick intensity that he doesn't like it when other boys talk to me. He glares at my face and leers, ‘You’re wearing too much makeup.’ In his car, he grabs my wrists in punishment like a crown of barbed wire digging its thorns. Is relationship a penitence in the honest gasp for real love? And can love even merit a rightful possession over someone? He smiles, he assures me, but all I feel is the shackle of dis-autonomy around my ankles.
iii.
In the classroom, there’s a boy with confetti of freckles on his cheeks. His silence is as deafening as his crouched mountain-shoulders. I remember the October chill fading into Antarctic coldness, and he was the sun in his solitude. He has reserved himself into a universe of his own and I saw him once scratching at his nails with the blunted tip of his pencil. The pink nail polish became garish and grained. No more of its surface gloss and neon beauty. I asked him why. He answered, ‘My father says I am a sissy. No boy would ever wear nail polish.’ I rummaged through the stars and gave him a twinkling assurance, ‘Don’t ever let anyone tell you what you should like and what you shouldn’t. That pink nail polish looked good on you.’
iv.
In the coyote streets, I am a schoolgirl walking home from school. In a fast-paced tragedy, a van, with its windows rolled down, idled to match the speed of my carefree Converse sneakers. The bearded men, with their tacky sunglasses, whistled at me; they stuck their tongues out in a lewd motion between the peace sign of their fingers. I was young but I had a ferocious heart of dragon fire; I spitted at them and screamed with a horror montage.
v.
In the underground club, I am a trans-pretty, powerpuff girl. The mirrorball lights filter through the strands of my fiery red hair and I am burning the whole dance floor with the friction of my heels. My pronouns are validly she/her and everyone gapes at my pink halter dress. I don’t have time to think about the transphobic insults I received from the muscle-Spartan boys as I vogue my way to the allure of teenage rebellion. As I swish my arms
upward and jut my hips, I toss away the memories of disgust from the streets, I dance off the razor remarks scarred on my old body when I transitioned into my girl metamorphosis. I am a goddess; I am a living proof of trans-existence.
vi.
In the artsy office of my therapist, she says, ‘You’re not to blame for what happened.’ I remember the callousness of his hand, my eyes blurring into a paroxysm of dizziness and pain from the alcohol drink he handed. I am a damsel carrying no distress, only splintered rage. The dents from his touch left a phantom presence on my thighs, shoulders, breasts, and navel. Fingertips that traversed, quested, and paraded control without consent. I remember the thick accent of his slurred speech as he pinned me down with his star-quarterback strength. But I don’t remember saying ‘Yes’ at all to the avalanche of ruination that he caused.
vii.
In a cycle of abuse and violence, I take my power. I am a victim, but most importantly, I am a survivor with a reckoning centrifugal force. I am gonna spin the world with all my metal heart, punk rage, and flower wreaths.
i.
In the reflection, I am a nine-year-old girl with fangs out and gills embroidered on my neck. My mom says I am a siren in a girlhood mortal body; it’s a curse often weaved in the serenity of ancient folktales. Perhaps siren is a dangerous word, it is a slithering battle-lullaby of deception. My voice howls with chlorine resentment, it doesn’t scale its clamoring notes to love and glamorous lure. I am a mermaid with my iridescent scales on my legs, purple-print and sewed with wine-tinged knuckles. I ask her a question that tides like ocean waves on her rubied heart, the white foams lapping over the exposed wounds of steep-rock and long-endured abuse, ‘When will you leave him? He doesn’t love us anymore, Mama.’ She teeters on the kitchen table, a sandcastle gnawed into glitter erosion. It winks against the fluorescent light — the blue orbs of tears with their tolerance-rot and false optimism carved from the deepest trench of brainwashed possibilities.
ii.
In the gold gleaming hallways, I am a high school enigma of perfection. A-grade student and red lips ready to cut. I tug at the sleeves of my pink cardigan, pulling at the loose thread to draw comfort of protection. My boyfriend drapes his arms around my bird-soft shoulders, and it feels like my wingspan is being crushed. I look at his earth-toned eyes, and all I could see is the magma intensity of his so-called love. I swish my tongue inside my cheeks, and I could still taste the remnants of bitterness and word assaults. The pastel bouquets and silver smiles are all a distraction; they shimmer moonbow and faux affection to hide the obsidian soul writhing within his boy-body. He declares me a slut when I wear the Burberry skirt my Dad had compensated for. He informs me with an icepick intensity that he doesn't like it when other boys talk to me. He glares at my face and leers, ‘You’re wearing too much makeup.’ In his car, he grabs my wrists in punishment like a crown of barbed wire digging its thorns. Is relationship a penitence in the honest gasp for real love? And can love even merit a rightful possession over someone? He smiles, he assures me, but all I feel is the shackle of dis-autonomy around my ankles.
iii.
In the classroom, there’s a boy with confetti of freckles on his cheeks. His silence is as deafening as his crouched mountain-shoulders. I remember the October chill fading into Antarctic coldness, and he was the sun in his solitude. He has reserved himself into a universe of his own and I saw him once scratching at his nails with the blunted tip of his pencil. The pink nail polish became garish and grained. No more of its surface gloss and neon beauty. I asked him why. He answered, ‘My father says I am a sissy. No boy would ever wear nail polish.’ I rummaged through the stars and gave him a twinkling assurance, ‘Don’t ever let anyone tell you what you should like and what you shouldn’t. That pink nail polish looked good on you.’
iv.
In the coyote streets, I am a schoolgirl walking home from school. In a fast-paced tragedy, a van, with its windows rolled down, idled to match the speed of my carefree Converse sneakers. The bearded men, with their tacky sunglasses, whistled at me; they stuck their tongues out in a lewd motion between the peace sign of their fingers. I was young but I had a ferocious heart of dragon fire; I spitted at them and screamed with a horror montage.
v.
In the underground club, I am a trans-pretty, powerpuff girl. The mirrorball lights filter through the strands of my fiery red hair and I am burning the whole dance floor with the friction of my heels. My pronouns are validly she/her and everyone gapes at my pink halter dress. I don’t have time to think about the transphobic insults I received from the muscle-Spartan boys as I vogue my way to the allure of teenage rebellion. As I swish my arms
upward and jut my hips, I toss away the memories of disgust from the streets, I dance off the razor remarks scarred on my old body when I transitioned into my girl metamorphosis. I am a goddess; I am a living proof of trans-existence.
vi.
In the artsy office of my therapist, she says, ‘You’re not to blame for what happened.’ I remember the callousness of his hand, my eyes blurring into a paroxysm of dizziness and pain from the alcohol drink he handed. I am a damsel carrying no distress, only splintered rage. The dents from his touch left a phantom presence on my thighs, shoulders, breasts, and navel. Fingertips that traversed, quested, and paraded control without consent. I remember the thick accent of his slurred speech as he pinned me down with his star-quarterback strength. But I don’t remember saying ‘Yes’ at all to the avalanche of ruination that he caused.
vii.
In a cycle of abuse and violence, I take my power. I am a victim, but most importantly, I am a survivor with a reckoning centrifugal force. I am gonna spin the world with all my metal heart, punk rage, and flower wreaths.
About the Author
Dan Aries is a nineteen-year-old femme queer individual who longs for the city at heart. Born and raised in the Philippines, they are serious about writing and are histrionically in love with gossip, art,fashion, and the universe’s mysteries. Currently studying linguistics, they are also the literary head within a university-wide publication, The Salidummay. Young as they may be, they have a fierce heart for intersectional feminism and inclusivity. As a nonbinary person with dramatic flair, the world has handed them a lot of brunt to be angry about, but instead of splintering from that weight, they use writing to shape the rage into something transformative. If they are not writing or studying, Dan Aries is probably just holed up in their room, watching drag makeup tutorials while feeling the fantasy with a faux mink coat.