By: Ethan Seagraves (he/they)

We went to see a movie this weekend.

Bathroom break before heading to our seats,
The sign reads “Women”.
I am neither this nor that,
But the sign reads “Women”.

This is the door I’ve always used,
So why does it feel so heavy?
This is the door they say I’m supposed to use,
So why do I feel unsteady?

I pray to myself that I am alone.

I am not.

My facial hair bristles.
I am keenly aware of my binder.
I duck into the first stall.
My preference was always the second or third.
I wonder if today is the day.
A messy tangle of validation and anxiety.
My skin feels as thin as theater toilet paper.
The gaps in the stall grow uncomfortably wide
As I wait for them to leave.

This is the door I’ve always used,
So why does it feel like I’m hiding?
This is the door they say I’m supposed to use,
So why have I braced for fighting?

We went to see a movie this weekend.

Bathroom break before heading home,
The sign reads “Women”.

Author’s Note: This poem is about navigating daily life as a trans-nonbinary person amid rising anti-trans politics. Ethan Seagraves (he/they) is a trans-nonbinary, disabled, and queer Appalachian artist.