Milisha Magazine Issue 1

A Gender Terror Magazine

Enlightenment from a Gender Terrorist

Milisha is a brought to you by Adelaide Knowles, a disgruntled member of the community at large, an undercover menace to the ‘heteronormative’. If you support this magazine or wish to be voiced in a rather terrifying world, then make yourself known, grab an alias and puncture the boundaries and limits you fear to challenge alone.
You don’t know who I am You don’t see the tension rise in me You don’t see the slave I will be Chained by unbroken, forgettable past Deep throating all my words Scraping hands across the outside Bleeding internally for all its trash You don’t know who I am You don’t feel the pain deep inside of me You don’t feel me choking in the sea Swallowing my life, just to be free Climbing the fence of fire Bleeding externally

I am hurt that you don’t love me, when I love you all so much. I’m sorry you won’t get to feel, the love that is in my touch. I’m doing this to survive, and my heart is bruised and aching, because you’re making me say goodbye. I’m not sorry that I can’t be the man you all want me to be. I’m sorry that you can’t accept me for being me. Goodbye my family, Goodbye!
You are the air that I breathe Love overflowing The gentle light I see An angel ever glowing Unlock these chains that bind Gently, ever so gently For hearts are fragile
And you now hold the only one I own.

No box to tick to send nothing concrete nothing certain. My dinner is cooked and not eaten. My arms have strength but are not strong enough. My rhymes are little, I couldn’t find the page. Forward me on, somewhere I can be me, forward me on where I can feel calm, forward me on to somewhere.

They look at me, they call me gay, but I am not gay, I’m a natural teenage girl- I grow angry. They look at me and tell me to wait, I have waited and waited, yet they slow me down, a little help and I could succeed. I’m sick of being alone, away from everyone

Yes, I am the person in the photographs. It’s for art, liberation and never saying sorry for being yourself. The poems however were found lounging around the internet, sorry I havn’t credited. 2008.
Contact or visit Accredits all the trans* people out there who are alive, surviving thriving and diving.

and myself. I stare

Using these words Not to belittle women Not to mock them Not to speak about women at all To speak of ourselves Unnamed regions Rose Pink and rust fire Beyond the stern arrogant borders of manhood.

She was sitting in a room alone, with another 17 people watching her. She was here for the same reason the others were, to grieve. She had lost a child, one she had known her entire life, it was her daughter, the daughter she thought about as a child, and the daughter that gave her hope when she was the most upset. This daughter who has a name, and all the things a loved child should have, never had a chance to live, not like the other girls, because she had a transsexual mother, she was never born, but carried to full term for many years. She went to school, and through puberty and graduated high school, she never saw the sun. She did it all from within the womb of her mother, who never knew she was real, never knew she had a full life for which she was thankful and grateful for. She played with me, and she danced and we sang. We studied and went through a lot of strife. We grew up together until eventually we could recognize our lives parallel to one another. Some of my happiest thoughts were of her, they helped me through transition and even when I was striving for equality at school and work. And then one day I met her, she was sitting across the room from me, and my thoughts were of that life and so were hers, we smiled at each other until it was time to leave Her dying wish was see me again. And it was her mother’s responsibility to bury her daughter. Not all mothers grieve in the same way, sometimes it’s a secret when no one else chooses to believe it. I don’t want to bury my children, but I will have to let her go, to that place where the death dances.





Life in cage, romancing the stone, begging for an opening in a world where I’m alone; A myriad, a cross, a chain. Who’s to blame?

The truth is in between, it always has been, just like power prejudice and violence.


Justice served on a cold dish, given a chance at retribution, but I lost my 2 cents worth somewhere in this war. By the time I made it to you I was a rag, covered in blood and tears, and I couldn’t tell you what was wrong, I probably didn’t even know. When I leaned over to kiss you, I got punched in the face, learning my place as something other than real. A fantasy just like you, just like me, without the naked lie, searching for each other, but I only finding sores and scabs, I want that safety, I’m begging for it, you think I’m begging for you. I’m into it, I’m into feeling something, just don’t die yet.



The search for a voice, leaves me powerless unable to fight back, even when I want to I am here like a figment of your imagination, I run so far away, wishing you’ll apologise. But you won’t for a long time yet, the sick fascination with keeping me this way, prolongs the torture of speaking to institutions which have no ears to listen. Deep inside there is a magical well filled with tear drops, a secret hiding place where I live with the gods that have no gender or sex, the place where I am me without you.


Twisted little sister
There are things in this world which are secret. We keep them secret, because they are not allowed to be talked about, we hide them and run from them, we’re afraid of other people’s fear, we’re afraid of being naked, we’re afraid of the truth. We run to places like our mother, our mistress, our lovers or our lies. We promise to remove the thorns from our sides and be ourselves, we promise to keep this secret place safe. Sometimes I’m ignored, other times, I’m not even there, listening to the vernacular of a different people. Speak they say, so that you can shut up. Somewhere inside it hurts, sometimes we forget to be afraid, and just bleed right there. It is that we do not, cannot belong, it is because we are running to those which we believe can love us, keep us make us real. Where in this world am I free to experience the world as anything but the stranger? But it isn’t just sexuality for which gender is binding, it the rules that exclude us, the rules that don’t predict us, it’s the rules which make us squirm and protest, the authority we are fighting, the safe places we are trying to make. This is a secret love between boundaries and unknown limitations, it is the secret life of us, we must live, in spite of the fact we are missing

Twisted transistor

Mary said to Ashley, "I don't know if I want it anymore". Ashley wasn't in the mood for cheap exchanges, distracted, thinking of another way to explain the shattered window to her mother. "You're being irrational". Mary wondered "But what if it’s real? The nonsense, the shit, the hurt, what if its intentional, I should find something else, somebody else." Ashley looked up "Someone like me? Why is it that we never got together?" Mary took a moment, to look at the rocks. "I don't think we can, I mean look at your shoes!" Ashley wondered, "Why what's wrong with my shoes?" "You won't get it", "GET WHAT!" She yelled in excitement and desperation. Mary took off her clothes and dived into the ocean. Ashley walked to shore, with Mary's clothes in her hand, sat down in the sand and thought of snowflakes..

Fighting against Gender Terror
Sometimes its sexuality, sometimes it’s longing to be naked. I’d be swimming in the ocean, stretching out my legs, letting water rush between them, I’d be dancing naked in front of you, I would be angry for DIFFERENT reasons. Naked is like being partly clothed, because there is a limit to what can be explored about the body. Things which say no, when your mind and brain scream GO! I’m leading you on, I’m putting myself in danger, I’m making promises I can’t keep, and I can’t tell you why, I can’t.

Try to tell myself it will be ok. Try to explain that I can have deep... erm... thoughts... One day after sailing upon the impossible sea in a pirate ship filled with scurvy queers, I stand at the bow of the ship pretending to be at the steering wheel. The truth is, if I dived into the ocean I could swim, but even with these cutthroat pirates I am not famous, have no niche and survive only because I have a scimitar, a puffy shirt and eye patch. Like the ghosts that cook our meals, I am a spectre a minority within a minority, a wheel within a wheel, a girl within a boy, and then some kind of worms. Should I fly? Should I swim? Or should we take back the sea?

Stop fucking me in the bad way!

And now I wonder if I’m ever coming back. My place in the world and the places in which I choose to exist. Intermittent are those that cross my existence, but somewhere beyond the hills and under the waves, there is something remaining. Sometimes a rainbow, sometimes a rain cloud! Something which I keep open for her or him, a place that isn’t ruined, the dreams that I cannot sell, a secret place where things don’t exist, they just wait to be spoiled, angered hurt and avenged.

You’ve come a long way.

continues to find allies within various communities and the amount of literature is becoming relative and friendlier. That means you will find support, even if it’s not from the people you love (because rejection is very real) and you’ll find an opportunity to express the dire need for love and acceptance which so often can fly right by a transgendered person. Unfortunately we need to start processing our separation from Gays and Lesbians, just as they are separate from each other, the Queer Bloc provides a group of compassionate supporters, but they are barely the instigators of your future, the needs of Trans* people are unique and so they need to be addressed with regards to their unique social experiences. So don’t expect a fairy tale unless you’re fond of the poverty stricken heroine to be. What I really want to say is, you might feel alone, isolated, even a little bit deprived, because so much has to happen, and you may not have the right friends, the right lifestyle to make it all come together the way you long for it be. So find help, get support, and make new friends, keep the old ones, but get new ones as well, who will focus on you, and not themselves – after all you’d hate to be living someone else’s life right? So we’re not born gender perfect, it just makes life more interesting. This is just the truth, a lot of Trans* people don’t make it, because they’re cornered and even trapped after they come out, a lack of support or identification with social roles and perhaps a lack of consideration, rather than compassion. The magic of sexual transitioning is still a stubborn and expensive medical process. In the mean time, life doesn’t have to be that bad. You will find people who support you in every life choice that you make, and if they don’t make yourself heard, I think we’d listen...

Coming out as Trans* wasn’t easy, in fact it was kind of annoying. The annoying thing wasn’t the fact that I was Trans*, but more the fact that I didn’t really know what I was doing and I didn’t really have much support – at least not at first. In hindsight, maybe I should have thought about it, but there wasn’t really much time, I was decaying. The unfortunate mess and memory has lead me to experience a number of things which I also didn’t expect as a part of the Trans* experience, such as isolation, anonymity, secrecy, fear and a lot of questions about love and sexuality. You see if I wanted the person on the inside to match the person on the outside, I’d have to erase the cascades of political shit, medical hearsay, ambiguous definitions, financial near impossibilities, sexual semantics. In other words life is about to get a whole lot more complicated. This isn’t bad, it just means quite plainly you’re not a cisgendered woman or girl, you don’t have the same access to social definitions of normality or even abnormality, you don’t have any fairy tales written for you, and when I came out barely was there much more than pornographic consideration and empathy for the physical being I was to become – in other words, don’t expect people to see the ‘real you’, hopefully your friends and peers will understand it, but no matter how hard you try, you probably won’t get your period. In other words you are facing a unique situation, one which is not invalidated by biology or other people who experience a somewhat more fluent transition into adulthood and sexuality. The Trans* experience

Every now and then I stop and question, I question everything. A rose by any other name – Maybe I’m a rose then if people call me a rose, Maybe I’m a pervert - if that’s what I’m called.

More thorn than rose

Maybe it’s not the name, but the smell, the thorns and the colours that remind me That despite the elaborate deceptions, Some part of me deserves a name And an introduction to violets and frangipanis and tulips Every time I would believe that which is called a rose, I should think of daisies, Think of trucks, swords and prisons – The pick of the roses is a most unfortunate plant, But in that moment it transitions into the world of art Abounding itself in a plethora of dedications, Few of which capture the Shakespeare’s truth, An undercover pig washed over in lipstick, A sickness in the heart of the longing, Disconnected and dying Has to fit into a world that someone else has made.

So you’re off to see the wizard?
t o r t u r e
And then we have to form a strategy in order to face the world, we have to demand a world for us, or we have to leave the world to learn for itself, the misery of a life without us. So why are you against me? Why don’t you get me some coffee?

Sometimes we are forced to face our confrontations; we’re forced to seek out our own destiny. A trans, pans, genderf*cked life is a life of trying to gain political territory, but it is rich in the experiences and lessons learned and shared. It’s like nothing you’ve experienced, but But many of us are not traditional fighters, we are gender terrorists. That means we feel, rather than fight. But one day the confrontations of identity will leave us with slings and arrows and Shakespearean dialogue, it will leave us with ambrosia and nought but a fathomless, graceful void with which to argue our perspective. But why not try peeing standing up, sitting down, doing a hand stand, in a nappy, in the shower, on your best friend, in your panties in your bed? It’s time to end the terror gain some base. have known your entire life. It’s time to reveal ourselves, to venture our politics against the walls of the mainstream. It’s time to be voiced.

The truth is out there. And so is a life.

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