Title: The Limitations of the Polish Language
Warnings: Dysphoria, brief discussion of sex
Summary: Polska is female, but they are not.
Notes: Thank you to Saucy on Tumblr for some help! Originally from the Kink Meme.
Only slightly self-indulgement.
That is the Polish language’s gender-neutral pronoun. Ono—a word which, translated into the English language, means it.
That is what Poland is. Poland, the representation of the Republic of Poland, is nothing more than an it in the eyes of their people.
Poland drinks their tea, the liquid scalding their throat as they try to take their mind off their chest. Tears spring into their eyes, and they struggle to gulp the burning tea. It’s four forty-five. Another half-hour and Lithuania should be back home from work.
Deciding that they can’t take this anymore, Poland pours the rest of their tea in the sink and heads upstairs. Their work clothes itch their skin, their pants reminding them of genitals that should not—cannot—be there and their shirt clinging to their chest. They unbutton their shirt before they reach the door and pull on something looser. A V-cut pastel blouse with small daisies on the sleeve. They change their pants into a short pink skirt.
Yet despite changing their clothes to reflect what they’re feels inside, the itch doesn’t go away. It remains, searing into a burn, and the mirror across the room tempts them to smash it into a million pieces.
Poland puts their head in their hands and sits on the bed, their back facing the mirror. Lithuania once said that their clothing choices made them look like a women, but woman never sat right with them. They are not a woman. They do not feel like a women. They do not feel like a man either.
I am an it.( Read more... )
A seed of worry sewed in Feliks’ stomach. “What’s up?”
( Read more... )
Lithuania never took himself for a dancer, but whenever he did, Poland made sure to hold tight and never let him go.
His tall frame made him Poland’s perfect partner, gently taking his hand as they flowed across the room, field, wherever. He had the perfect grip on Poland’s waist, and Poland memorized the exact space where he rested his hand on his arm. As much as he didn’t like to admit it, Lithuania knew all of the nobility’s dances by heart, the walk of the Chodzony, the stately gestures of the Polonez, the short steps of the Minuet. His movements reminded Poland of a lithe, graceful horse, his hooves beating in step with the song.
"M-May I ask you to dance?" he would ask, no matter where they were, inside or out, in the middle of a great ball or alone in their room.
Poland would smile and take his hand. “Duh.” And the process would begin quick like the pjoviau šieną or mazurka, and he would whisk Poland away to a world of themselves.
Sitting alone in a cold Russian room, Poland wished Lithuania would dance with him again.