Zoi's Window

  Mialka was a sweet little girl, hardly five years of age, who lived with her father and elder brother in a little cottage at the end of the path which ran through the woods. Surrounding this little cottage made of the cheapest timber there were no other signs of civilisation for miles. The closest village was on the other side of the woods and walking to it took almost a day. As a result, Mialka had grown up almost completely cut-off from civilisation. Behind her father’s cottage was a small patch of fertile land where the family grew grains and vegetables. The harvest was never enough to sell, but almost always enough to feed the three mouths. The family’s only source of income was the wild berries the men of the house plucked from the woods and sold in the marketplace every fortnight. A tiny portion of this meagre earning was given to Mialka and Dolohaev, Mialka’s elder brother who was in his late teens. With their allowance the children were free to do whatever they wished – D...

The legal form has two options Neither of which feels like you. So you look back to what you were told, And select the lie that will pass for the truth, Finishing off with a signature not your own. There are two washrooms wherever you go - One for suits, the other for frocks. One feels wrong; the other doesn't feel right, But that's only because you didn't know You were allowed to feel wrong there too. The papers talk about "gender discrimination"; They go on and on about one. You wait for yours to break the monologue, But that epiphany never comes. And you wonder if you're the one who's wrong. The clothes you wear come from the wrong section of the store. They fit your form, but they don't fit you. Yet they're all that the passers-by see As you walk down the streets Invisible to your own country. But don't let that stop you From being the 'you' you truly are. Here's from one enby to another: You are real; you are valid. You may be ...