Is a question that I shouldn’t ever have to answer. But because I wasn’t born yesterday, I know at least one person is going to ask. I’ve known for quite some time, so for a while I kept the actual clothes I’d worn that day. Ultimately, on the three year anniversary of my survival, I took a trip to the coast with my older sister and ceremonially burned the clothing that had no right to own my life. I always knew I’d eventually be writing about this though, so I took pictures.
The shirt I wore on that day. I valued this shirt primarily because the way that it was cut allowed me to hide the form of the breasts that I had recently grown, and secondarily because it hid the maximum amount of arm possible while still being as breathable as a tank top. I showed no cleavage, and the size and cut hid as much of my “womanly” form as possible. I know someone somewhere will say that this shirt was too revealing, that I therefore somehow brought tragedy down upon my own head. That theoretical person can go die for all I care.
They’re shorts. Sure, my legs were visible, but so is everyone else’s legs in the summer. As far as shorts go, these were as shapeless as they could possibly be, just bulky bits of fabric I wore to fit our society’s standards of what we should be ashamed enough to cover no matter how hot the weather.
Gracetopher Kirk 