i hate that our parents taught us to muffle our emotions

and i hate the need for a cigarette that i feel in your car



i hate that when i was younger i told myself to stop writing songs

i hate the need for loving that i feel when i'm alone



but it is going to be alright sometime

it is going to be alright sometime

i feel this soft



you don't know what to do when you're cold and lonely

your sit on my bed and watch tv

the seasons are changing

your hands are frigid and you are messaging your girlfriend

telling her existential things,

bringing her into your crisis



now you're remembering when you were thirteen

and in love with ingrown ivy

and your best friend...

who told you she could never love you and said so in the cryptic bubbles

she drew in your poetry book.

you're feeling kind of restless and you know you can't contest that

there's no way

to get out of this highhandedly-



so you turn away

and you make up words to fill the pages of



your soft leather book

and you think of sweet summer, somewhere special and you crawl

into your bed

where you can be warm

and blend in -

Next to you
I slow my breathing
To memorize the rhythm of yours,
Which calms me from the memory
Of nightmares

I was always
The first person awake at the sleepover;

Maybe one or two girls awoke
But everyone returned to rest with ease
Except me -

I've long been looking for things to fill those spaces
Between sleep and wakefulness ;

I had never considered
Writing to you

Yours was the arrival

I did not know

I was anticipating

"GIRLS OWN THE VOID," the text reads.

I am not a girl,
And yet I, too
Wish to plunge into nothingness -

Can I hold your hand and join you when you next return?

Outside, accusations float past my narrow shoulders
And shudder across the concrete.

"GIRLS OWN THE VOID.

Back off, *******. We are home."

Unleash your depths
And let me drown, I

Want to learn how long I will  submerge
Before my lungs burn up

And my eyes bulge out
Until I can no longer feel the pressure

When I am with you,

My smile can blaze

And my muscles

Contort themselves into positions

I never imagined possible

I brim with compassion.

My strength comes from encountering fear
And gazing into the eyes
Of whatever form it takes.

It lies in my acceptance
Of vulnerability as great as the trees
Whose aged, gentle leaves
Shade my fragile skin
And restore me as I slumber.

This confidence is a new development,
And I do not always bear it with grace;
But I trust in my abilities
And love for living,
(A rare thing! A new thing! A grand thing!),
Which I defend fiercely
And with great care.

Shame upon whomever seeks to shatter
The tranquility of another!
May the yellow eye of terror
Fixate on them
And inspire redirection.

On Taking Up Space,

the ripples of the skin of my gentle lover-

Diligently recorded

In smudging black ink

Banks
And the stale odor of Marlboro Golds
Remind you of a slower time
When you broke into abandoned barns and sang sermons to the rooftops
Unaware of who might listen

You've gone home now,

Departed on your bike in your baseball cap

And I can still feel
The echo of you on my skin

Blank skin begging to be touched says,

"kissing you is like eating stardust, and,

I'll crawl to the corners of your earth if you let me.

In the middle of things, while you are away,

please save me an honest smile?"

You said to keep my eyes on you,
but I was busy memorizing
the way your cadence rose and fell
and how each syllable
altered the contours of your face;
and you revived everything around you...

I'm not a person for promises,
or seeds sown out of spite, but there is something so fascinating about you-

how you glide and breathe
so effortlessly by me

and I think that maybe, you could be my sun
if circumstances
and solar systems
allow

I haven't cried in weeks.

I'm not sure if I remember how.

The desire swells at the back of my throat,
the muscles constrict and burn, but when the blade is just inches
from plunging through my neck, I stop

and pour another glass of wine

It would take me 230 hours to walk from the spot
where you first told me you'd like to be my partner
to the place where,
nearly eight months later,
you apologized
for breaking my heart.

Two-hundred and thirty hours.

According to my calculations,
which I etched in my new writing pad,
I have one-hundred and one poems left until I reach my total.

If I write a poem each day,
it will take me almost three-and-a-half more months
before your vision
is faded from my memory, and by that time
it will almost be December
when your birthday falls,
and I'll have to start over.

And that time is not counting
old photographs re-surfacing,
the pain of knowing I've been erased,
or chance encounters on our campus, see

I have been eliminated twice now
by women who I have loved like nothing else
and I'm beginning to fear
that something is wrong with my love, that I am too potent
or terrifying
to have success.

I want someone to leave me,
and leave me well; I want to be able to call them
when I am sick, or alone, or dying of desperation,
when I have lost my home or someone in my family,
and vice versa.

I want someone to feel the same small attachment and desire
to still cultivate my well-being
as I do
for those whose voices I no longer hear in my sleep.

We both have kind eyes,
And are growing
In our separate ways
And that is
Oddly comforting to me

I may not have the most perfect physique,
but as I sit here,
having a beer and becoming aware of myself,
I realize that it is all that I need.

My neck, though it grows stiff on occasion,
is the perfect ***** for the face of a lover.

My spine is long and narrow,
but crunched into itself
from years of compacting.

I want to reach inside my skin and set it free.

My shoulders are sloped, but sturdy,
and carry the weight of a thousand worlds.

One of my biceps is bigger than the other,
but that's okay,
its a natural phenomenon
and when I flex my right arm
it makes me feel strong, and powerful.
Capable.

I may not be thin enough
for you to count each tiny, delicate rib, but
I have a strong abdomen
and can do many sit-ups
or pull myself out from under you,
sit up suddenly to kiss you,
and anchor myself to the earth, yes -

My hips aren't as narrow as I'd like them to be,
but my quadriceps are strong and sinuous

My reflexes, feline
and my calves pure muscle,

I know
because ever since I turned thirteen,
I have been staring at them

after soccer practice in my cleats and shinguards
at the pool as the water drips off my legs and catches in the hairs
I've worked so hard to groom
in the morning as I stretch and caress their skin-

My feet
wiggle their toes into the moist, warm earth and keep me firm
and my eyes
pry into you,
always seeking
for things unknown

Your work isn't very good,
You have four women who've misconceived you,
and your drinking is a bit of a mess.

You smoke too much *** and you're really beginning to fill out your underwear.

But you're writing,
aren't you?

I don't know if anybody told you
that you look like young Winona Ryder,
or that the skin around your eyelids
looks so perfect when you smile, but

You're a devil

And you move just like you like

And no one can tell you anything
When you bite your lip that nice

At least I'm here,
At least I'm writing,
And feeling full.

At least this sustenance,
This painful brew,
Nourishes me.

At least I boil and then drink the thorns
And feel no sting
Of sadness in my throat

Anymore

Talk to me more about miscommunications.

Tell me more about
These jumbled lips,
Misshapen teeth,
Boxed-off smiles you're carting around.

Convince me one more time that you're so perfect,
Please.

Cut my wings and ask me to take flight,
Again, I dare you.

I was strong
And in need of redemption
I was lost
And deserved a response -

Craft another elegant lie about how you loved me
And I'll use it as fuel for these flames.

Feel less dread when you think about the complex nights you've had,
stupors you've fallen into,
lovers you've kissed.

Those things are okay,
and everybody does them.

Eat your breakfast on the fire escape, and watch the birds.

Read a little every morning, too
and remember that "morning"
means "before twelve pm."

Breathe a little, darling,
and not just into the mouth
of a stranger.

I am migrating between two worlds,

and learning to do it swiftly

I fell in love with an actress

and she didn't know

when to step off the stage.

You said, in small text:

<p>OKAY. Let’s talk about this. </p>

<p>✨CW: transphobia, mental health stuff, strong language✨</p>

<p>[Reblog the hell out of this post. It’s about to be important].</p>

<p>I woke up this morning to my girlfriend, my partner-in-crime, my best friend, my favorite bean, sending me this photo. She couldn’t believe that it was real and thought that I was playing some sick joke. </p>

<p>Good ******* morning. </p>

<p>Listen up, whoever you are, you entitled little ****. Your opinions, attractions, desires, whatever they are - they DO NOT MATTER. Assuming, based on the context of your post, that you identify as a guy, let me just say this: </p>

<p>You are a small man. You’re using the guise of anonymity to objectify a radiant woman whose depth and breadth you can’t ever begin to comprehend - and I’m not just saying that because she’s mine. You’re also transphobic as **** - and clearly don’t understand that trans-ness and genitalia are actually (and often) far removed from each other. </p>

<p>I’d like to think that I don’t need to explain why the comment “your girl ain’t a girl no more” (in addition to being grammatically terrible) is NOT acceptable, but in case I do, here is MY two cents on the matter of MYSELF. </p>

<p>I fought for this body. I bled for this consciousness, I shined light into places in me that I didn’t know existed and found depression, dysphoria, trauma, and loads of anxiety. I nearly died for this body. If it hadn’t been for a select few people who saw me for the love I was worth, I wouldn’t be alive to write this post. That’s not an exaggeration, it’s a fact. </p>

<p>I’m telling you, stranger, this because there is more behind your words than you know. Each time you take your privilege and cishetero advantage for granted and allow misguided, bigoted words to fall out of your disgusting face-hole or fingertips, you’re reminding me of how I almost died for this body and consciousness. How my girlfriend and countless others like us have been subject to vast physical and mental torment for our queerness, our trans-ness, our SELVES.</p>

<p>I’m addressing you not as you, but as the mass of people you represent. I’m posting this on behalf of the 22 trans people who were murdered last year because of ignorance like yours. I’m posting this on behalf of feminine-identified people everywhere who deal with the wrath of objectification, sexism, and violence that your very actions embody and permit. </p>

<p>

He said to her:

So you date guys? Cause like your girl ain't a girl no more so hit me up ;)

She said:

<3 I love you very much babe. You’re amazing <3

You said:

I love you so much.  Your eyes make mine want to well up with happiness  And  Your voice makes me want to create   Your body is a tool and a weapon and full of glorious purpose  And I love watching you  Do everyday things  Like put on glasses  Or brush your teeth   You're a comfort to me, A gateway to wisdom and ideas I've never encountered before   And I love you  So so so so so so much   So **** anyone  Who can't understand what that means to us   (cleaning out your inbox after the filth)

Okay, I miss you. I miss you a lot and you won't return my calls or anything, you just vanished one day, disappeared. You've finally gotten your dream, you'd always wanted to be good at not existing in the face of tragedy. You tell yourself through tumblr posts and reblogged poems that you're strong, but the reality is that your words wound more than they can touch.

You're a facsimile, a fraud, my friend. But the thing is, you're so **** beautiful when you're doing it that it's almost forgiveable. That's why, when I look into the photographs of you I wasn't supposed to see, I soften at the sight of your creases as you smile, and the nape of your neck where I used to rest, and I think-

Someday this woman is going to belong to someone else, if you can say a person belongs to anyone-

And, secondly-

That I hope she will carry my memory in her bones as far as she travels.

If I look closer at your smile, it doesn't seem real.

I've saved the pictures, I want to know if you did too. I found an old one of you in my favorite hat, the one I used to work out in, feel strong in, explore with you in. Now it makes me think of you.

I hate that you took that from me.

Their healthy trans-ness
in the face of my own desolate relationship
made me sad

and thorny

but so, so happy for them
and their ability to thrive

I've been using my computer's HDMI chord to connect to a T.V. in order to game, but I've never written poetry on it.

The magnification of the words and the fluidity of the transfer from keyboard to screen is magnificent.

It's giving a kind of otherworldly, surreal feeling to the pieces I'm creating.

I've been very vulnerable lately. I am vulnerable, and I'm not sure how to exist within it.

Well, see, society (what is it? It lives and breathes but is often undetected- like a cyborg) tells us that vulnerability = femininity, in order for both to mutually invalidate the other- because in a patriarchal society that feeds on myth, there is no room for either of them, as they provoke questions. But once you're out of the spectrum,  things begin to change.

I'm beginning to view patriarchal systems of oppression as post-apocalyptic worlds - something which, through my interest in science fiction, is important and familiar to me. It makes this life seem equal parts more bearable and more gruesome, because, on one hand, nothing seems real, but on the other, everything appears to be hyper-realistic and predictive of some sort of massive disaster. Oftentimes I'm not sure which to side with.

I'm also keeping a journal of things that I do to make myself feel better & gendering them as society would just to see what I'm like inside. It's interesting to see that I'm a mixture of gendered behaviors, but that pain itself is not gendered.

My trans friend says that's contradictory. He believes that society exists purely without gender, intrinsically, and that since we create gender for ourselves as a means of oppression, I shouldn't be trying to figure out how I relate within that system, but rather attempting to break out of it.

But, hey- better the devil you know than the devil you don't, right?

I'm


Okay


(At pretending I'm still living)

I am slowly desensitizing

Myself to the word

"Babe"

We were born
Out of chaos
Wind and rain shaped us

I held you for the first time
After a fight with a woman, I
Needed you to know how impossible you were
To do without

We died out
In the chaos
The winds that chastised us
Whisked you away from me

Disclaimer:

You're sexting a poet

You weren't my muse.

I wrote love poems to you,
Not about you,

And there's a difference.

I cradled my words alone,
They did not need your touch
To thrive

You're reading
Basquiat
You're viewing
Basquiat

Basquiat is etched
Into my arm
You are reading
You are thinking
Of me

You loved others before you,
Who dared to come near you
And give you a fate to suffer.

When another approached you,
Looking only to love you,
You crushed their attempts.

The raindrops re-arrange themselves
Into dreary patterns on my window.

Morphing into snowflakes,
They crystallize
In the gray dawn.

I'm going to miss
Having winters with you.

Yesterday in a court of law,
I was called a Sir.

I carried on the proud lineage
Of men before me,
Who fought and died for their country
And loved without abandon.

Pasta makers, butcher's boys,
Painters, and writers.
I claimed my place among the ranks,

One I had dreamed of
As a child,
Staring into the face
Of my great-grandfather
And his father before him.

Don't*

Destroy yourself for me, or go gentle,
That was not
What We intended.

You are strong, careless, full of worth
And your imagination knows no limits;

You will soar far, and fast
Through your orbit of destiny,
And I
Will watch from the edges

Cautious and careful
As always

I was immersed in you

For a hot moment

Until the rains came

And when the fog lifted,

I was rebirthed

And sank

If there is something you want to know,
Please ask for it.

Don't go searching
A blank canvas
For strokes that don't exist.

Ask,
And I shall answer
Your gentle calls-

That is a promise,
Not a passing thought.

This poem must be heard
With eyes closed,
Chest open,
And blood coursing through
Untold chasms, it must

Be felt and reverberate
Across every vessel inside
Your expansive brain

I've got
Socks around my ankles,
A chip on my left shoulder,
And
A lover who's naieve enough
To say I'm meaningless.

This is the summer
Of burning down houses,
Repairing bridges,
Of **** on the fly.

This is the summer
Of misconstrued lovers,
Of thick consummation
And marital wine.

I find rhythms. I search for sounds with unbearable pieces in them, and make them holy. I believe in the language of the asymmetrical eye… Broken lines of Morse code, fragments of memories. I recall them. I get drunk, I get high, I ramble into the night until I can’t anymore. I resist torture brought to me by outside forces. I think about my father and my lovers and my sister, and I weep through the barrel of my pen. I edit sober, always, diligently. I take my craft incredibly seriously. I enjoy the loops and whorls of my penmanship. I frequently forget ideas. Oftentimes I lack discipline. I am selfish about my art- is is my catharsis, I don’t trust anyone. I compare myself to great artists before me and convince myself we have a kinship. I want to be great, I want to taste fame and I am working on being unashamed of this feeling.