Two years into the weekly shots, the needles no longer intimidate me, their hollowness a wormhole I shoot the magic through. Genes get turned on, I’m told: we’re born with both sets of blueprints, we all have a male and a female body inside us. One cannibalizes the other, you could say. That’s not a medical fact, that’s how I feel when I see my sideburns, when I smell my own spicy skin, when I get called bro by a tollbooth worker in western Mass, and then another closer to home.
I’m being honest: beginning again is a monstrous process, a real horror show.