The Twins

by Prudence Gendron

Prudence Gendron (she/they) is a Montreal-based writer, white settler, sometimes-radio personality, and total softie. Her work has appeared in CV2, Antilang, Bad Nudes, and the dreams of several New England magistrates, for which she is being tried as a witch. Somewhere, there’s a slice of cake with her name on it.

My tits are two small fears collecting milk for the nourishment of adult men. They
grow in response to a chemical known as desire. The only man in my life who wants
them is me.

They are an infinity symbol, although, in demarcating how I am to be known, also a
finity symbol. They are two crystal balls telling the future of my oppression. I love
them because they have an unbottleable smell. Worn freely beneath a wool turtleneck,
people assume I know theatre. No theatre is a kind they’re called to practice often.

They are participation trophies for being in gender whom I refer to as the twins, and
they are just that: mystical doubles dressed in coordinated outfits by their overbearing
parent. They’re telepathic, pathogenic, empathic and pathetic. They sound the dark
bells of the pathedral. For them, every season is the season of the witch.

They like to be touched. They really, really like to be touched. They’re landing pads for
miniature helicopters of affection. They’re sensitive logarithmic scales of arousal
spitting out gibberish. Also, they’re sundials. My tits are cross-eyed and sexy for it,
pointing outwards toward two brighter tomorrows.

I’m telling you all of this so you can care for them when I’m no longer here. I plan to
summer in the heat of someone else’s idea of me, and they may not be allowed to come.

 


Prudence Gendron (she/they) is a Montreal-based writer, white settler, sometimes-radio personality, and total softie. Her work has appeared in CV2, Antilang, Bad Nudes, and the dreams of several New England magistrates, for which she is being tried as a witch. Somewhere, there’s a slice of cake with her name on it.

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