Prick

Am I sure? The medic asks, I nod, and the syringe is filled. There is no question, really, it's just a disguise. So we may pass in a place where to be woman is to be, at best, a prize, a beautiful object, and if not that, if not pretty, the lowest of status: care-giver, victim, skiv. I've been there before, but their bronze age religious texts are now prescripts. They name science witchcraft and women are burned.

We cannot communicate and the tracker has been still for days. The mission stalled, the unit trapped or injured at best. We are impelled to rescue. As a matter of course we take pills to camouflage our pigmentation. The alternative would be to play the slave. That society segregated, skin remains Africa dark or Scandinavia light, while we fell in love, colours blended into creamy coffee tones. To pass, we sublimate.

I will take this hit, re-enter adolescence and leave through a different door. Genitalia a delicate reissue but imperceptible changes will make me unrecognisable. My body already quite androgynous, still, my chest will flatten, voice deepen, wiry hair emerge through virgin skin. I push the needle into my vein & plunge.