one day i was talking to my little sister.
she asks me if i was ever depressed.
i tell her yes.
her eyes widen and her lips are mouthing 'why?'
'babe, i'm transgender.'
'is that it?'
so i begin to explain to her the things i feel.
i tell her how everyday i can't wait to get home
and slice open this body i don't know
with a razor from a convenience store.
i tell her i don't know how to act like
a girl for mom and dad, but apparently
i do a **** good job because they
don't notice i'm not.
i tell her that for fourteen years
i've wanted to cut my hair short
and never have to wear a skirt to church again.
i tell her about the pain and fear of
going into a public bathroom.
i tell her about the looks the kids at school give me
and the shoves from behind
about the **** binders and
the locker rooms.
i tell her that i don't know what they
want me to be, and if i can be it.
i tell her all i want is to be called 'he'
and feel like they mean it.

she pauses and gives me a look that says
even though she's too young to understand,
she does.
'i've always wanted a brother.'

She's right there
fifteen feet from me,
my red, dilated eyes
and bleeding legs
screaming her name
or rather screaming the fact that I couldn't scream her name
couldn't whisper it,
couldn't even get close enough
that if I had whispered it, she would have heard me.
But she's right there
and she doesn't hear me anyway.
So why am I bleeding?
Why am I high?
Why am I broken?
She doesn't care