I'm not your gurl. I'm not your boy...

I'm not your gurl. I'm not your boy. I'm not your toy.


Sand whispers between my fingers, rests between my toes. Sand in every crack. Only rock that erodes to sand and sand that becomes rock.

Only sand; and me, looking at sand.

I wish it were stormy. This placid spot is boring. The tourists left with the first raindrops. Now the sun comes out; but, they don't come back.

No one is taking selfies or, finding me half naked, laughs.

I could use some laughter.

After last night?

I need more than laughter.



So what's my name?

Call me Sandy.

But be advised.

I'm not your gurl. I'm not your boy. I'm not your toy.

Not since that day. That boring day. Meeting them was the highlight of my week. Until it wasn't.

There's nothing like kissing to get the blood boiling, nothing like bad sex to freeze it.

I'll stay frozen rather than put myself through that again.

What did they expect?

I'm trans. What-the-hell did they expect?

It should've ended with a kiss instead of both of us screaming. No. Don't ask. I refuse to share the sordid details.

The sand forgets. The water forgives. The rocks will remember; but, who ever listens to rocks?

There's a tidal pool here, that in the calm after our storm, showed my reflection. I picked up a stone to ripple its surface. I didn't need to see my tear-stained face.

I'd seen those tears too many times.

Each time I think it'll be different.

Each time I'm proven wrong.

Where are the clowns.

Now I hear children laughing in joy. I'll focus on that. They run past me, parents in tow. The two mothers amble-by, not seeing me. That's okay. I don't want to be seen by more than the earth and the sky.

Where is the clown? Don't worry. I'm here.

The laughter diminishes. The happy family is finished. I watch them trudge back up the path to wherever. One waves goodbye. I wish I could join them.

The day is cooling now. So is my blood. I feel a cold wet drop assault my forehead.

They said they wanted to meet me today. So, where are they now?

I get up to go, but then they appear from nowhere.

And the storm rides in on cue, as if —

We argue about this, that and whatever comes to mind as we shout over the wind, the crashing waves. Trees moan. The cave moans back. We dance in the sand like wrestlers or acrobats. I barely hold onto my sanity, arms akimbo, legs spread to maintain my dignity. One fearsome gust pummels me and I lose my balance, face-plant, sprawl in the sand.

Blurry-eyed, I look up at them standing over me.

They mouth I'm sorry, then pause, holding out a hand.

I look at the open fist, shake my head, then turn to crawl up the river flowing down the muddied path.

I go alone.

© Kåre Enga (30.mars.2025) [182.5]

For March 2025

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