Eraser Lines

They called her girl. Sometimes that seemed okay. It fit sometimes. And sometimes it didn't quite fit, but didn't quite grate at something inside her, either.

Other times...

(like being rubbed raw, like...)

---

It seemed like Larxene had to have known, at times, even though Naminé never said a word. Not the details, of course. But maybe there was enough knowledge in a small flinch, in dulled eyes, in a shrinking presence; caused by carefully placed words designed to nettle and cut, and smirks like a knife's edge.

---

She liked her dress, really, she did. But it emphasized parts of her body that she didn't always like.

---

She erased the offending parts from her drawings involving herself. Redrew. Erased.

Scribbled out. Crumpled up the paper and hid it.

She wondered what it would be like if she could only do the same to her body; shed away and replace curves, lines as necessary; reshape.

---

But she couldn't.

---

She thought maybe if gender was colors, perhaps most people's were just one color, maybe many different shades of the same color. But she didn't think the colors really changed. She didn't really know. It wasn't really like she had anyone she could ask. It didn't really matter. Maybe it was silly.

---

She thought maybe today she was purple, and maybe tomorrow she'd be green again. Maybe.

---

"You're coloring your shadow wrong, again. Why aren't you using a black crayon? Your shadows aren't purple, or green, or any of the other things you've colored them as! Honestly, this is ridiculous."

---

They weren't colored wrong at all. She kept on.