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Ace (they/them) is a nonbinary theatre goblin, story-teller and maker of poetry.

"My experience of being transgender has been a slow granting of permission to unfurl into my own wild, weird shape, with all of the golden joy and howling anxiety that that entails. I could never have dreamed that the miserable and confused little kid I used to be would end up with language to describe themselves, and community that shares their experience, and so I try and be a loud and shiny lighthouse to other boats navigating the mists on their own journey."

"I write poetry to find words for the unsayable things inside me - the rage, the confusion, the ecstacy, the grief. Poetry alchemizes the lump of lead in my stomach or heart or throat and turns it into quicksilver. I love to take that stuckness in my body and pound it through my feet and beat it against my teeth until it's verse-shaped. And more than anything, I love sharing something that I thought was too niche, too personal for anyone else to relate, and have someone go "OMG same!" If laughter is the shortest distance between two people, poetry is the ivy-covered alleyway that links my back yard to yours."

IG: @theydyamelia YT: Bard & Troubadour


This is About a Greek Hero Called Caeneus

Trigger Warning: Discussions of sexual assault, one use of the word r*pe.


is what the academics call Caeneus. He

Problematizes gender with his trans-

formation, with his trans-

cendence, because he

doesn't turn into a weeping tree,

voiceless, petrified in place. He

doesn't become a roaring bear or lion

to banish, to call dangerous,

and draw the line between

the men and the beasts, the other.

The problem,

my partner tells me,

the problem that you have to understand

is that in the ancient Greek,

the words for 'rape' and 'seduction' are harder to parse.

It's difficult to know where the lines are drawn,

because over time the languages changes

(Language will not keep its shape, it shifts)

And what does it mean for a people, for a time,

when the tongue can't taste the difference

between con-sent and con-quest?

What pleasures do we deny

on warm summer beaches in golden god glow?

What sins do we allow?

The turning point of our story is written on a tide shore,

and the storyteller decides where the waves roll.

But the problem

with Caeneus

is that the line is not blurred. He marks it,

driving that point into the wet sand,

into the salt water surrounding him

as Poseidon drips brine and seaweed and asks,

"Was it good for you too, babe?"

Never. Again. This. Never.

Not from you, not from anyone.

Not like this, not in this body.

On Tumblr

Poseidon and Caeneus are a meet-cute.

The tide rolls and language changes

(it will not keep its shape, it shifts)

Here, on younger tongues,

Poseidon says trans rights

and princess becomes prince,

becomes more, becomes hero,

invincible. Impenetrable.

Never. Again. This. Never.

In this fan fiction perhaps I can imagine between them something more like my own awkward conversations

at the edge of beds, on the edge of my tongue, something

slowly revealed like the salt flats as the sea

gently takes back his hands

from the edge of the land.

Not from you, not from anyone.

Not like this, not in this body.

It's problematic

to have your queer icons bare their chest

and wear their scars so loudly,

to claim and defend their body so completely.

It is problematic

to hurt and heal together.

It is problematic

to cross the lines we draw in the sand, and stand

with your feet in both worlds.

What pleasures do we deny

on warm summer beaches in golden god glow?

What sins do we allow?


When I was twelve a seamstress pulled tight

the tape around my body

(A land enclosure)

Named the terrain

"Child-bearing hips"

Promises of fertile valleys

and milky abundance

from this as yet unexplored continent.

The maps were never changed.

Travellers still walk this land

seeking dark earthy gardens,

sure of healing fountains.

They make their homes at the edge of the wilderness,

calling it farmland in potentia.

(Leave this place, settlers.

Between these hills I am carving a channel to the sea.

This land is for the salt and the cut-glass cliffs

For the sacred song of midges and wild wading birds

For fat eels and sucking marsh mud.

It is not a place

For fence posts and ploughshares.

It is not a place

To raise churches

Or quiet, obedient children.)

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