You're not an Alcoholic but sometimes
you wonder.

It's not how drunk you get,
it's not even how much you drink,

it's the way you do it.

It's the way
you come back to the word
Alcoholic
like it's a girlfriend,
like it's a Lover,
like it's a soul mate,

like it's home.

It's the way
you keep telling yourself
that you need a break -
not Sobriety,
which you think
is maybe what you really need,
no,
just
a break.
But not drinking
is just
a little bit
terrifying,
and the zines you've read on quitting
aren't enough,
and in the end
you break your break
the day you make it.

It's the way
you don't need an excuse
to drink when you're out.
One, two, three, four drinks,
hey, if someone pays ...
once again
dissolving the barely formed
boundary you set with yourself.

It's the way
you sneak
your drinks
when you're at home.
Wine, beer, ***,
anything you can get
into your system
not because you particularly like
what's there,
but because
it is there,
because
it's something
and
you're not an
Alcoholic,
but you need
something.

You're not an
Alcoholic,
would be out of place in rehab or AA,
but sometimes
you wonder.

What would be like
to be
100%
safe?

I mean
to be that perfect combination
of visible
and invisible.

I mean
to be
left alone
while walking the streets.

I mean
to be
respected.

I mean to be a
white
straight
man.

-

I have to drill it into my head
that I love myself
as I am –
queer, ace, woman-read, brown, crazy, femme –
because if I didn’t
I’d never be able to leave the house.

I have to say
that to be otherwise
would be boring
so that maybe one day
I'll actually believe it.

But I cannot say
I have never wanted to be
100%
safe.

-

Today
I put on a short dress
I have never felt pretty enough to wear,
and walked to and from a café,
knowing what would come.

I kept track –
four honks, one leer, one whistle,
told myself:
                   you knew this would happen,
                     this is nothing,
                     you’re lucky,
                     it could be
                     so
                     much
                     worse.

It still hurt.

I practiced the motion
of flipping off the bird
as I walked,
tried to get it
as reflexive
as a cop with a loaded gun,
knowing
that it would make no difference.

-

To dare to be feminine in public
is to perfect
the art of looking straight ahead
the art of being hard of hearing
the art of fast, fast, fast walking
[just in case].

So often
we have to weaponize femininity
because that’s all we’ve got.

It happens imperceptibly
but you know it
when it’s in full effect –

Two’s company
three’s crowd.

It’s not
anyone’s fault,
not something
anyone decides,
just how it goes
sometimes.

Conversation
becomes
more and more
personal,
until it is clear:

You are not supposed to be here.

So you do
what you are good at doing.
You disappear.

-

See, disappearing?
You have it down
to a science.

Talk less and less
and then not at all.
Stare off into space,
perhaps fidget from time to time,
make small movements
to show that you
have not quite
turned to stone.

Take a while to leave.
It can’t be sudden -
you wouldn’t want to draw attention
to yourself.
[It’s awkward for everyone involved.]

Finally,
when you think you just
can’t
bear it,
get up to go to the bathroom
and never come back.

It’s easier than you think.

-

They will look for and address you
eventually:
oh good night, are you okay, you’re so quiet,
you should have said something, I’m sorry, sorry,
sorry.

The usual.

You will reassure them
when the time comes,
fold up your feelings
into a little origami crane
that you wish could just
fly away.

But for now
you can sit safely
in your invisibility.

-

You told your friend group earlier
that sometimes you thought
there was no point calling yourself
gay
because you just hated everyone.

It makes everyone laugh,
and even you find that you’re amused,
but
you don’t know if they heard
the hurt, the bitterness, the honesty of that statement
buried within your voice.

-

You watch
the way your two friends (with benefits)
are affectionate with each other,
the way one puts her head
in the other’s lap,
the way they play with each other’s hair
small kisses on small places,
the way they do these things
and see only each other,
as if all of this
is only obvious
to them.

It’s sweet.

You try to rouse yourself into
more feeling:
jealousy,
sadness,
hopefulness,
anything intense, but
everything boils down to
the same nothingness.
This is simply
another thing you
can’t/won’t/don’t have
[pick any verb, they’re all true].

-

And this is what
your life is:
trying to find ways
to make everything disappear.

Feelings – gone.
Desires – gone.
Expectations – gone.
Hopes – gone.
Communication – gone.

-

And this is what your life is:
Succeeding.

To be brown is to
know racism in every shade -
internal,
or
external,
microaggression
or
aggression.

To be brown is
an inquisition,
every time you step foot outside –
“What are you?”
“What does your name mean?”
“Have you tried that restaurant?”
“Have you been back?
“What religion are you?”
“Say something in your language!”

To be brown is
the shame
of either
too much
or not enough,
that you try to
press down, ignore,
forget about -
don’t be so sensitive.

To be brown is
an investment,
the way you are always supposed to
rise and rise and rise,
have the opportunities of the west
and the values of the east,
marry a nice brown heterosexual,
go to graduate school,
have a good career,
earn more money than your parents did,
be safe and settled,
provide for your parents,
your parents,
who only pressure you
and push you
because they want you to be

happy.

To be brown is
diaspora,
the way your tongue
trips over the words of native languages
you never grew up speaking
because English was always taught
first
to generations before you,
the way you weren’t born with
any real community,
and even now
most of your friends
are white,
the way
you have to move in the world
hearing your name
mispronounced in every way imaginable,
the way you
scan the room
for any brown face
because you know
a brown person will
understand,
the way you realize
how often you are the only
brown body
in any space,
queer or straight,
the way you really are a
minority.

To be brown is
reclamation,
the way you learn to
find beauty in the brown and the hair
and the body type,
the way you learn to
let yourself feel Anger
at appropriation,
the way you learn to fight
for identity –
correct the mispronunciations
learn the language,
listen to the music,
cook the food,
wear the clothes,
go back to the country
learn the history,
do what you need to do
in your
imperfect
perfect
way,
****
what anyone says.

To be brown
is to be
enough.

Such a shame, shame, shame

How much
shame can I endure,
is it possible to
die
from it,
because Shame
is killing me.

It's just
there's so much of it,
from
what I look like,
to what I believe,
to how I feel,
to what I like,
to what I dare to claim for myself.

Shame has seeped
into every pore of me,
and shuts me up,
and if you think I am
dishonest,
it's only because of
Shame.

You see,
Shame is there
every day,
loud, loud, loud
always yelling at me
always mocking me.

Shame reprimands:

How
Dare
you talk?

How
Dare
you take up space?

How
Dare
you desire?

How
Dare
you expect better?

How
Dare
you continue to exist?

Shame taunts:
They will all find out
how
Bad
you are
how
you've never wanted
to be
Good.

They will all find out
that you are a fraud
that you are a liar,
that you know
nothing,
that you are a
racist,
that you are
unaccountable,
that you are
actually White,
that you are
transphobic,
that you are
callous,
that you are
cold,
that you don’t
care,
that you don’t
feel,
that you break
boundaries,
that you break
hearts.

Shame is there to whisper to me
even on the good days:
you know,
they already know,
they are only humoring you,
you know,
the only thing you'll
ever
be good for
is to be a blank slate
for people's emotions.

You can't even do that
right.*

Shame
is an ice pick
chip, chip chipping away
at any worth I cultivate.
Shame
is fingers
pick, pick, picking away
at anything that dares to grow into goodness.

Shame
is killing me.

You were never meant to be a
pretty girl.

The adults always said
you were so beautiful as a baby,
had such a natural smile,
had such clear skin,
[what happened?]

You could have been
Beautiful,
but you spurned
Beauty.
Gave her the *******
didn't even try to tame fingers
that ripped yourself apart.

In the end
the adults were right.

There came a day
when you looked at yourself -
really looked,
surveyed the damage
and suddenly
you Cared.

You wanted to slink back to
Beauty,
beg for her forgiveness.

But it's not so easy
and it's not so simple.
You never had the
discipline,
never had the
follow through,
always did have

commitment issues.

So you made a choice.
If you couldn't have
Beauty
you would court
her opposite.

These days you
give the ******* to
Beauty
every time you
dare to look good
while baring your wounds, your scars
like tattoos,
like fine works of art.

These days you
make offerings to
The Grotesque
with your blade
and your blood
and your bits of skin and nails.

And Beauty's opposite
takes them all,
and Beauty's opposite
is easy to please
and

you were never meant to be a
pretty girl.

In the movies this doesn’t happen.

The lovers don’t dissolve into nothing
after visits and good times and bad times and pet names and words like
safe
and
Soulmate
and

The One.

They don’t break up and
stay that way.

In the movies,
there’s unconditional love
and sometimes it’s tragic but
it’s always
unconditional,

But me?
I’m not the unconditional love
kind of grrl,
I’m only a grrl with

bad habits.

Pick my lip, my leg, pick my arm until I see red,
cut my arms up because I’m bored,
play games with my meds,
swipe my parents’ alcohol,
fall in love with
crazy grrls,
fall in love with

Impossibility.

-
I want to be able to Love forever but
wanting to talk to you
is only another bad habit,
only wanting another hit
to get the high before the fall.


See for me,
love is a high
and a


                                       crash.

There is no in between.

-
I want to be able to Love forever but
when I say I miss you
there is no feeling
when I say I want you
there is no feeling
when I say your name
there is no feeling.

I know now.
There are no soul mates.
There is no One.

(there is no one).