Listen, I don’t want to look like a guy, I just want to look like my dog when she barks and snarls and people assume she’s a boy because of the way she bares her teeth. I want to look like my favorite movie villain when he’s wiping blood off his mouth with the back of his hand, when he grins and his teeth are a foamy red. I want to look like the monster I used to imagine was hiding in my closet, with its long fingers and its many sharp fangs. I want to look like the chemical smell of a just-struck match. I want to look like a knife. No, I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense: I just want to be the queerest-looking motherfucker in the grocery store.