Words by P. Eldridge

There are roses in a turquoise vase across from me on the floor, opposite side of the bed. Six of them, red, thorns still intact, water already turning cloudy with that faint green rot smell of cut stems gasping. The vase is painted with cherry blossoms, willow trees, figures swirling in celebratory dance, the kind of image that feels centuries old and too alive all at once. The bed is a mattress directly on the ground, no frame, no elevation, just pressed into the floor of a tiny flat. I am in Paris. I am eight days post facial feminisation surgery and I feel like the size of a house, a cathedral swelling in slow motion.

My face is not a face right now, it is a landscape of swelling and stitches. Flesh stretched over bone that has been broken, sanded, rebuilt. I dream of drills, the metallic whine lodged in the deepest part of my skull. I wake tasting blood, tongue swollen, lips cracked, nose aching. The surgeons’ hands are ghosts inside my head, prising me open, hammering, shaving, digging. I can feel them still, like a phantom occupation. Every blink feels mechanised, eyelids straining over swollen ridges, pupils floating in a balloon of flesh.

Outside this flat Paris parades itself as if mocking me, vibrantly alive and noisy – teenagers laughing with espressos in their fists, tiny dogs in neckerchiefs trotting across cobblestones. Café chairs all turned outward, rows of eyes waiting, daring me to walk past. I wrap bandages around my nose—to the pharmacy, a cafe, a little park for fresh air—wear Saint Laurent glasses that minimises my swelling, and still people stare. A man mutters something sharp as I pass, spit flying. I keep walking, turning to look at him. I hear him, Mademoiselle, suce ma bite. My face won’t let me answer back. My face is still an unassembled mask.