I dread 2nd and King to this day.

I was born into a poor family:
dad the drunkard,
mom the **** addict,
brother abusive,
and sister wrist slitter,
in '84.

Mealtime portions measly.
The house's fragmented windows,
chipping paint
and carpet, ash stained beyond cleaning,
forced me to attempt an escape
several times.
Its a wonder we had a house at all!
I was the only one who worked.

From 10:00 until 7:00
in the dead of winter I used to stand
in clothes so thin
I was better off not even wearing them.
In '97 I was too young to work
legally.
But I wasn't too young for the men-
and I admit, some attractive-
who would pull up to
2nd and King.
I just crawled in the backseat,
assumed the position,
and took my beating
for not being born to the right family,
class,
city,
house...
...... corner...
..................men...
...........................­..­....

I can't look at that sign
marking the corner
without thinking of
crotch after crotch
until it was etched in my brain
that the male genitalia
was the epiphany of evil.
I have to turn my head.

I dread 2nd and King to this day.

my greatest fear
is mother and father
reading my journals

see through lines
deliberately unreadable

because i write the unthinkable
     'i might not marry someday'

and the perverse
     'i wonder what's it like to **** this girl'

and the abominable
     Amber is a woman trapped in the wrong body
          and
                        she
                  ­               is
                                     suffocating.

i choke on the silence
because it is woman's role
in Saturday sermons

because i cannot borrow my brother's slippers
     i am not needed outdoors

because when i spoke for the trans waiter with the pained smile
     they blamed my sociology
     and not my compassion

mother and father, bless your souls
i'd rather not have you read this

and believe in the 'i love you's

                               because love is the greatest commandment
                                               *but we spit on the ****

I never write poetry
I write crap in line breaks

my last poem was from five months ago
and i actually typed 'years'
because maybe deep down that's what it felt like

no tears have been shed but
the rain seems to do all the crying.
i said 'someday i'll take a break'
and i fear someday will never come
because i keep searching
and i constantly end up
discontented.

the cursor mocks me and the books block me.

and maybe i really am

but i'd like to believe it isn't true
but everything's been a race
and my eyes blur
and i'm waiting for the crack of dawn
for the justification
and not the crack of a soul dead tired
i don't want to be tired

in my waking moments i move
someday i'll take a break

First poetry in red.
airs and violins nearby, in my
head.
rest prances around.
unwilling to help.
sleep does not exist;
it does not cover me.
I am jealous of the world.
sand covers their eyes
while I,
while I.

sweat and rain and no colors.
lightning makes the sky white for a while.
shadows on places and sleep on dreams.
lusting for sleep; not getting
any. I should watch the
lightning show.