Gold and Black

Isabelle Quilty

they/them

@thecaffeinebee

Gold and Black came about as I was finally settling into my new pronouns like a jacket that was familiar yet brand new. I think that’s what Gold and Black is all about, really. How my non-binary identity has always been a part of me, just below the surface, waiting to rise up. Gold and Black is a reflection of the dream I’ve always held on to, a fantasy of being my truest self.

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The man of Gold and Black. Who I hope to be. Two halves surfaced into the consciousness of reality. Merging into a saintly light. They are beyond the binary. 

Past the figures and silhouettes imposed onto me.

They fold through time and space, a matter of grain, salt, and sand. They are the formation of time made precious. Hope gleaned from peaceful moments. Belief. Faith in the self and in shadows.

From simple punctures and ink stabbed and woven into the skin. To the blessing of the summer sun on my neck. It is pleasure made drinkable when I see a reflection that doesn’t stare back with malice. When the flicker of candlelight and the shadows around it are allowed to co-exist, another hammer swings down onto the anvil. Another piece of armour deftly crafted. 

At all times of the day, the man of Gold and Black watches me. Cool morning air kisses the skin, and I feel a shadow of gold shift beneath me as we walk in tandem. He is melted riches. Liquid shadow. The needle-thin moment between night and dawn, bleeding into the sky. He is the one that toils over the boiling fire within the pit of my stomach. Every step I take, he pushes me to. Every toil is his to boast. 

It is in him I seek the solemnly given threads of hope that these toils are worth it. That one day I can drink in the sun without the hairs on the back of my neck rising. One day, he will melt and settle himself into my brown skin, and never leave me again. 

But in his wake, walks the shadow of midnight black. Muscle, fissures, and bitter ash are what defines him. How can anyone better such a creature? If you can strike fear into their heart, then you are safe. No one can hurt what they fear. This is his reasoning. This is why shadows flicker in his eyes and smoke stains the irises. Slathering yourself in fear can be easily twisted. It is a harrowed path with few friends. 

I wonder how I might be both. Sunlight and salty ocean wind. Midnight and my breath stinking of alcohol. 

I need to be more than metal. More than fear. More than melted wax running down the skin. More than black and gold. I dream, in days rich as this, to be me.