at seven years old
when a switch was thrown
and suddenly i knew that
something wasn’t quite right
i did not feel courageous

i was so scared
feeling nailed inside
this coffin of a body
that no longer felt like mine

there were no words
that my tongue could wrap around
to verbalize how wrong it felt
when i was called daughter
so i swallowed that bitterness
and felt it like a
twisting knife in my guts

and i did not feel courageous
i did not feel brave
as i clawed my way out
of that pink box i had been
involuntarily thrown into

but i have been told that
i am brave
i am courageous
i am strong
for being transgender
and i don’t know what
to do with that

and it was not bravery
that had me telling my mother
i needed her credit card number
to buy a cheap chest binder
off of amazon
because i was really a boy

i had decided i would
not be dying as a woman
and be buried in a nice dress
with the wrong name
and gender on my tombstone

i decided then
standing in the kitchen
of the little cabin we lived in
16 years old and terrified
that i would make myself
into a bright light of a boy

and i really don’t think
of that as being a courageous act
it was one of preservation
of finally deciding that
living was better than surviving

and the funny thing is
that makes people see me as brave
and i don’t know what to do with that
because i was scared then
and i have been scared since

the only difference is
i am going to live long enough
this time around
so that i just might be
able to see what people mean
when they tell me i am brave

sometimes my girl-hood
feels like a festering wound
a dark closet full of cobwebs
and dresses that never felt right

it was looking in the mirror
and there was hair down
to my *** that i screamed
when my mom tried to brush
and put bows in it

that face was not mine
a body that suddenly became
soft in places it had once been flat
and i could no longer run around shirtless
pretending i was one of the boys
before i knew what it meant

and everytime i played house
with the girls i harbored secret crushes on
i was the father
the son
the brother
the strange uncle that might be a vampire

i was the prince and i would
rescue the princess and still look
handsome with blood and dirt
on my face and clothes

and then something split open
inside of me and i almost
passed out in an old navy
because my body rioted
against this pain that
was so new and so red
and so heavy that
i became anemic multiple times

these unwanted and unwelcome changes
had me looking for an EXIT sign
that kept blinking off when i needed it most
and all i wanted to do was
grow hair on my face
and my chest
and for my voice to drop
into a sound that i could
hear without hating it

and the first time i
pulled this black tri-top fabric
over a chest that was always
too big to be seen as pectorals
it took my breath away
and hurt so quickly
but when i looked in the mirror
i saw a young man

i finally saw this boy
that grew up being told
he was a girl
and being called a name
that never felt right

i finally saw this boy
that knew who he was
before he knew his times tables
and that wound
gaping with years of hurt
scabbed over that much more
and he was able to
stand up a little straighter

i finally saw this boy
looking back at me
and he was
my god he is
so happy
to be alive

you were my first kiss
and you made my
bottom lip bleed

and i remember thinking
standing inside the tornado
that was my bedroom
you must be a vampire
and my god
i want to marry you

do you remember when
we stopped talking for the
first time and i told you
to come find me when we
were both done being stupid kids
and i would get you a ring?

my heart isn’t sure
if that offer still stands
too busy working on
fixing all the chunks
you ripped out

but i could never stay
mad at you
and i think you know that
i just love you too much

but you won’t ever love me
the way that i love you
with the “IN” before the “L”

so i keep writing you
****** poems that i may not
ever let you read
and the words act as
band-aids for all those little
tiny wounds that i keep
on coming back for

because someday
my heart and i will be able
to let go of you
but today is not that day

I do not remember the name of the hospital, only that there was no 13th room.
When I asked one of the nurses why, she told me it was because 13 is unlucky.
The two other psychiatric wards I’ve stayed in also skipped that number, so it must be true.

I don’t want to be here.

I don’t know where I want to go, but this ward is making my eye twitch.
There are locks on all the bathrooms, and no toilet seats.
The food isn’t terrible, but the calories next to each menu item make me feel fat.
How long have I been here?

Everything blends together, and my count of the days feels inaccurate.
My skin feels too tight.

I ask the handsome nurse, who hands me my little paper cup of pills, why he has braces.
He tells me he was in the Navy, and had to take them off for that.
He has a nice smile.
He asks to see if I swallowed my pills, and I stick out my tongue.

I don’t want to be here.

i think that if you asked
my love
i would take my binder
off for you

being unbound and
entirely open in your presence
that sounds like heaven
if only to me

because you are the eye
of a hurricane
and i am caught
in an orbit around you

and it’s not so bad sometimes
because that turning
of the whole body is like
the butterflies you cause

and i could be a rosebush
if you asked me to be
grow you the loveliest flowers
even on the coldest winter days

and even if you never
picked any of my flowers
i would still leave them in a vase
to greet you in the morning

because i want
you to be happy
even if it is
not with me

let’s talk about love, simon
this book that so many hands
have held and worn smooth
places on the cover
pages all creased from
countless readings

this book that became
a movie with witty
posters about coming out
and rainbow emoji hearts
as a way to advertise the
opening of doors upon
the realization that
love, simon is
a dearly needed piece of
media that gives queer
people a happy ending

and sitting in the theater
first with my grandmother
and then with my sister
i cried many times

for myself
for my friends
and for all the queer people
that have not lived to see
a movie like this

i was almost one of those people
because in national studies
40% of transgender adults have reported
attempting suicide
and 92% of those individuals reported
having attempted suicide before
the age of 25

i was almost one of those people
i was almost a statistic
because 5,000 lgbtq youth
take their lives each year
and 500,000 lgbtq youth
attempt suicide

so many movie theaters
could be filled with all these
people that didn’t make it through
who they were to become who they
were meant to be
because the world is a hateful
and hurtful place to those
that are different

but there is always a light
sometimes found in the pages
of a book by an author
that is not queer themselves but
puts the effort into listening to
lgbtq people and making that story
as true to their experiences
without any of the
pandering or queer-baiting
or the ******* fetishization

and i saw that light
when i looked over at my
sister and there were tears
in her eyes and she
grabbed my hand so hard
that it hurt

and i saw that light
when the people sitting
next to us clapped
as the movie ended

and i saw that light
in simon and how
scary and painful being
unsure of how to come out can be
because people will look
at you differently
they always do

but that’s okay because
you’re not doing this for them
you’re doing it for you
you beautiful sunbeam of a person
so lay down your scars and
sharp edges and come sit
next to me and hold
my hand if you want to
if you need to

because we are alive to
see this movie
to finally exhale that breath
because we survived
who we were
to become who
we are meant to be

you ask what is the point
what will this change
what will it do
why are kids walking OUT
when they should be
stepping UP

well
in this instance
you need to step
DOWN

because you are not
a child in 2018
having to seriously ask yourself
if school is even safe to go to
and if your school could be next
if it could be your classroom
your friend
your teacher
you
you
you

as an adult you
need to step DOWN
because this is not an instance
where your voice needs to
be louder than a child's
or a teenagers who just saw
their friends gunned down

because this is the time for
you as an adult to listen
and mean it
don’t just think of a response
or a way to prove that you know better
because if you have not been through it
you have no idea
what it’s like

and you as an adult
have had so many opportunities
to listen for so many years

but in elementary school
when three boys chased me
and pulled off my jacket
and knocked me to the ground
and i went to the recess aid
shaking with fear
and sobbing
she told me it was because the
boys liked me

but in middle school
when there were so many assemblies
about stomping out bullying
where the students signed their
names on a wooden plank painted white
like that would do anything
and even when i was still so afraid
to go to school that i would
have rather died
where were you to listen to me
to protect me

but in high school
when my best friend didn’t
even make it through the first
five months of his freshman year
of high school because he was
so relentlessly bullied
for being gay
where were you

where were you every time
that i was called a ****
a ***
a freak

where were you
why weren’t you stepping UP
for me then
when i needed you
to help me
when i was just a scared kid
that needed to be safe in school

where were you
every time i needed someone
to listen to me
to step UP for me
to tell me the bullying wasn’t my fault
and i wasn’t alone
WHERE WERE YOU

Why are you talking so loud now
making a tidal wave out of
your voices
like stepping UP is more important
than stepping OUT
right now when they are both needed

what gives you the right
to punish a student for
believing
and being right
that their life is more important
than some person’s ability to
buy an assault rifle
and peacefully protesting by
leaving school and not hurting anybody
because if you won’t listen to
the children then
*******
who will

how many children
and teenagers
kindergarten to college
have to ask
am i next
am i next
AM I NEXT
before you finally listen

there are many things that have not killed me,
and yeah, i guess they made me stronger.
but until those scars became strength,
i cut myself on all those sharp edges
of the shattered thing i had become.

and picking up those pieces was
a slow and painful thing that
painted my fingers,
my palms,
in bright cherry red.

i asked myself if it was worth it,
bleeding fingers stuck in my mouth.
just surviving was so exhausting.
how was i ever going to muster
the strength to put myself back
together with duct tape
and safety pins
and so many disappearing purple
glue sticks?

there was a comfort found in this state,
my body found homeostasis in the
barren battlefield of itself.
i told myself i could build a home
among the smoldering remains,
could learn to love the black smoke
that hung over everything i saw.

i told myself so many things
while on hands and knees in
hopes of finding who i once was
in the dirt and discarded memories.

i told myself i could stay there
if i wanted to,
let all those sharp edges slice
me into ribbons thinner than paper
that could be carried away on the
wind to a place that just didn’t hurt
so **** much.

i told myself that giving up
wouldn’t make me weak,
just so very human.
but a stubborn light inside of me
refused to burn out, like the porch light
left on night after night until
you make it back home.

and i clawed my way out of
that wreckage.
and i’ve got the scars to show
for it, the still sleepless nights
and sometimes even worse nightmares.

but so many of those sharp edges
have been rounded down into
shapes that fit together more
often than not, slotted into place
to make something stronger than
what and
who and
how i used to be.

i just had to survive the healing
process first, because the getting
better is what **** near
killed me.

There is a steady drip of blood running down your chin onto the floor, crouched in front of the open fridge like an animal. The single light from inside the big white box illuminates your hunched back, plays over each and every vertebrae that pokes out of the skin. Too thin. Too much. So cold and alone in this kitchen, fistful of raw hamburger meat to keep that snarling beast under wraps. Your lover slumbers in the next room. So afraid of waking them when your skeleton twists into a new shape, this new form replacing the fertile blood that comes each month. Raw meat warmed up by sweaty palms, a sort of DIY choke-chain, holding back the sharp teeth and terrible snarl. Scrabbling claws to go with an empty womb that will remain forever barren. You are okay with this, preferring the purge of smaller animals from a human stomach than losing so much life-blood that your body counters with anemia. Your lover knows about this, sometimes rubs your back through the worst of it, runs gentle fingers through your sweat and dirt clogged hair. It is okay, this new normal, this exchange of one pain for another. An emptiness that will never be filled, and twin scars of puckered pink. Meat to mouth, lips pulling back to allow for sharper, longer teeth. There is a steady drip of blood running down your chin onto the floor, this you will sop up later with sponges and the promise of a warm bed where the person that loves you as a man and as a beast will open their arms and tell you to come back to bed.

this taste is one i know well
the sweet kiss of peach,
swirled pastel pale with cream,
so light on my tongue
pulls me backward in time

with one sip,
everything fades away
and i find myself no longer in
this campus bookstore,
running on too little sleep
and almost too much to do

a blink of sleepy eyes, a deep yawn
and i am basking in the smells
of roasting coffee beans,
rainbow display of donuts,
the warmth of familiarity offered
by this place that has not existed
since i was in middle school

the me now takes a quiet second
to look back at the me then,
just starting to cut my hair short,
hopelessly in love
with this girl,
and angry at the world

a voice calls my name,
the one i gave myself,
and i turn in barely concealed excitement,
having mistaken this voice for that
of the girl who made my heart sing

what greets me, though,
is my mother, and
she beams at me from behind the
counter of this hole in the wall
coffee shop in welches, oregon,
gestures for me to sit
on a bar stool that spins back
and forth with only
minimal protesting creaks

straw scrapes bottom of
plastic cup and a part
of me cries out for
this moment not to end,
being a little kid again,
hands cold from the drink
i am clutching

my mother offers me a refill,
but this coffee shop is already
fading out of reality and back to memory
and i miss it bitterly

i want that coffee shop back,
with the good food and friends and love
i want that girl to hold my hand again,
make everything feel more whole

but my mother still
beams at me when she sees me
standing near the bar
at her work,
and things are alright

Your boots are by the door,
my love. In hopes you will pick them up again.

I think of your feet, so small.
Toes curled up against holey socks, so cold.

We could have been a city of two, my love.
But you lost your passport somewhere along the way.

Sometimes it feels like your boots are
all I have left of you. Worn leather, whispered promises.

You said we would be forever, in the way
that kids believe that so wholly. But forever is a long time, my love.

And I put my boots next to yours, my love.
Tie the laces together like hands holding tight.

I brush the cobwebs off your boots, my love.
Head over heels for ten years, hasn’t quit yet.

Phone buzzes then, your name on the screen.
The text says you’re back, my heart says you’re coming home.

My father once said to me,
“good luck, kid”

there was malice
in his voice,
there were tears
in my eyes

and I didn’t understand
why we were fighting,
but this was a dance
I knew the steps to
like I knew my father’s anger
was a poison that had been
seeped into my very bones

even then,
his anger was the most
consistent thing he ever
gave to me,
and a broken part of me
craved it, because at least
then he was paying attention
to me

and my father,
he never knew how to
be a father,
moving an hours long train
ride away and wondering
why I was afraid to stay
with him, this man
that I hardly knew
and only ever saw
when I looked in the
mirror

and I can’t remember
when my father stopped
being my hero,
when I stopped wanting
to be like him,
when protector became tormenter,
but it’s been long enough
to make me fearful
and resentful of this man,
whose face and mannerisms
I so happen to share

and and and
my father once said to me,
“good luck, kid,”
and I almost said back to him,
“I don’t need good luck,
I just need a father”

but I don’t think that’s
true anymore, and if
there’s one thing my father
taught me,
I should never tell a lie

I say your name
and my heart becomes
a little kid
pulling me towards the
candy aisle with both hands
ignoring my protests
of no time
no money
and it’s been too long
since I last saw a dentist
so who knows if my teeth
could handle your sweetness

I say your name
and we’re just two
kids in love again
stopping in the middle
of an empty street
to kiss open mouthed
like you are an oxygen tank
and I’m at the bottom
of the deepest ocean

I say your name
and I’m looking at
engagement rings
while calculating costs
and telling the clerk
behind the counter
that I plan to marry you

I say your name
and it is like water
after a hundred year drought
sweet and light
on my tongue

I say your name
I say your name
I say your name
and it’s like coming home

sometimes i think of the girl i used to be
in terms of fish hooks
all these little barbs stuck in my skin
in terms of needles
an arm covered in scars
and two twin lines that i have been
waiting for more than half my life

but those are the parts of this
body that i can change
from the outside in
each one making this she
that still resides inside of me
even more of a ghost

and i can feel her in the dead of night
she comes to me and
runs cold fingers through my short hair
and it’s like she’s thanking me

for finally burying the girl corpse
that i have been carrying on my back
like a ghost that refuses to be exorcised

but sometimes i still feel so haunted
by what this girl self could have been
and she is there again
speaking in a voice that mine hasn’t sounded
like for months and months
and she says it’s okay
because i made it
and that’s all she ever wanted

i like to think that
i know you like the
back of my hand
but the only thing
the peaks and valleys of
your body do for me
is make me nauseous

this is a landscape
that my hands cannot
explore without shaking
fingers curling into useless fists
that only know how to
try and pummel this soft flesh
into a shape it was not
originally born in to

and there are no more
trees here now
because the force of my
hatred towards this body
burned them all down
because this body is not
a temple or a church i
feel able to worship in
since this is not a god
i want to believe in

because believing in a god
that would zip me into this skin
and just watch as i try
to cut my way out of it
for nine years
six of those being with sharp edges
and jagged nails
and purple hollows under my eyes
there is no beauty in that

it is hard to write beautiful
poetry about a body i
spent more time hating and
feeling trapped in than i did
knowing how to live happily

but my god i am trying
i promise that i am
even if my hands shake
while trying to hold
the her that i used to be
close

these days i am stuck
choosing between binding and breathing
because nobody knew to tell me
that wearing this less severe corset
for more than eight hours at a time
could turn my ribs into a steel trap
around my lungs and my skin
would be able to count the seconds
that ticked by as that fabric
rubbed tighter and tighter
against my body

but it was worth it
at least for the first few minutes
until my breath became trapped
inside my body somewhere
between my lungs and my
nose and my mouth
and climbing three flights of stairs
from one class to the next felt
like running a marathon
with my legs tied together

and standing naked from the
waist up in the women’s bathroom
hating every second of wrestling the
binder off of sweat-soaked skin
made me want to reach into
my body through sheer force of will
and years of hatred
and scoop out the fat that made
up my *******

and i am accustomed to this
the want to remove the parts
of me that make people
tie me to the words
of she
and girl
and her
and mother
and sister
and woman
and and and
those things that i am not
those things that i never was
those things that i never will be

wanting to cut off
the parts of me that continue to lock
me into the involuntary box of
the female gender
makes me feel like a freak
and a monster
and a bad person for not loving
the body that a god with a penchant
for sick jokes stuck me in

but some days the dysphoria
makes it tempting to choose
binding over breathing
because even though my tolerance
for doing so is only about an hour
at this point isn’t an hour of relief
better than nothing at all

She saw this moment as the end
The pills were sticky from sweaty palms,
gripped tight in shaking hands
And the numbers,
the milligrams,
ticked slowly upwards,
clearing 5,000 but staying short of 10,000

This was the end,
her end,
orchestrated and carried out alone
This was cold toes curling into ugly carpet that hid years
of shed blood and tears
This was swallowing one last pill and feeling panic bloom
at the realization of the close

The heaviness of her body,
eyes unable to stay open,
head spinning down onto the pillow

This was the end,
this was her end
A young body pulled into nothingness
A young girl,
long dead,
finally letting go of her corpse

She saw this moment as the end

And his eyes flew open,
guts roiling and gasping into a state of being
laid dormant
for far too long

you killed all the
nice queer people and all
that’s left is me
with my shaking hands
and cracking voice
and fear giving way to anger
and a tiredness that nestles
ever deeper into my bones

and monday the 20th is
the 18th transgender day of remembrance
where the community mourns all
of its trans and nonbinary and genderfluid
and gender nonconforming siblings
because they were killed for
daring to be themselves
in a world that would rather
bury their dead sons and daughters
than have a child who changed their
name and gender marker
to the right ones

because being trans and queer
in a trump america
is an act of deviance and rebellion
where i could get beaten up for
using the mens room
and it would be my fault
because i am other
i am a freak
they do not understand me
and therefore that makes
me the enemy

but you have sat next to me
on the bus
in the movie theater
in the bathroom stall next to mine
while my anxiety mounted as
i waited for the bathroom to clear
out so i could leave safely
and i know when you look at me
you do not know what box
to force me into

and i want to know
you owe us all the answer
of how many more of our
siblings have to die before
you realize that we are people too
i am as human as you are
my correct hormones are just store-bought
and i had to claw my way into
the words of brother
and son
and nephew
and grandson
and boy boy boy
and male male male

but you have killed all the
nice queer people and all
you have left is me
and i am making my anger
into a louder voice
that will never be silenced
because you can cut out
my tongue and you can
take away my basic human rights
and you can even **** me

but the truth is that you will
always be more afraid of me
than i am of you
because while you ****
what you do not understand
i embrace it

Stimming/Self-stimulation: most common in individuals on the autism spectrum, but also done by those with anxiety, stimming (stim for short) is the act of engaging in repetitive motions--such as rocking, flapping hands, making noises, and touching or chewing on things--as a way to express emotions or self-soothe.

when anxiety has me ensnared
in its clawed and crooked grip
sunk deep into my bones
my spine becomes a rocking chair
pretzel-ing itself into a shape
that knows how to rid this body
of the gritted teeth and shaking hands
and tears that are a near-constant
and burning promise

and this movement
the motion of moving back and forth
planted firmly on mattress
or couch
or carpet
or hardwood floor
it grounds me and soothes the ache
of a mind in turmoil
in a way that unzipping
my flesh never did

but the motion that is heavily
put into practice while standing
is a noticeable thing
that is too calculated and controlled
to be played off as
intoxication or any other substance
to quite the roiling of my thoughts

and when my little sister
looks at me next to her
with fluttering hands and adding new
indents of my teeth into my bottom lip
and asks me why i am rocking
i do not know how to explain the
motion to her in a way that she will
understand and so i make myself stop
by forcing the movement into my leg

and many summers ago
when i sat on the mattress in
the livingroom of my father’s apartment
that was also my bedroom
and began to rock back and forth
to quell the rising tide of anxiety
from the anger in his eyes and voice
and he snapped at me to
“stop being such an aspie ****”
my only response was to
rock faster and bite back the
tears that threatened to
drown the both of us

“did you wish you
would have successfully
committed suicide?”

you can’t ask me that
because it is one
hell of a loaded question
and i’ll spend all this time
agonizing over what answer
will make you worry the least
because and ****** anyhow
i just don’t know

it’s just one thing in
a long laundry list of
maybe’s that i took
from therapist to therapist
and psych ward to psych ward
trying to find a definitive answer
on why i was depressed
why i was afraid to sleep at night
why i couldn’t just be happy
why i wanted to die
just why why why

and i don’t know
because my whole life
felt like preparations in order
to die younger than i should have
but that stubborn cursor just
kept on blinking away
saying that my story wasn’t over

but the thing is
that depression has no face
because there were good days
where i wasn’t miserable
but then the nights were hell
and i could never cut deep enough
to find the infection
that made me this way

because even now
almost 20 and terrified
over a life that still
sometimes feels like it should
have ended four years ago
i am still depressed

under the genuine smiling
and laughing where i don’t care
if my crooked teeth show
my mental illness is still there

and i am riddled
with anxiety
and guilt
and regret
though i still cannot
say for certain if that guilt
extends to the fact that i
failed to take my own life
because i just do not know

it’s a long list of maybes
more than the scars littering
my left arm
or the days that i spent
bruising my wrist on
any sharp corner i could
because i can’t say “yes”
and i can’t say “no”
without it feeling like a lie

“did you wish you
would have successfully
committed suicide?”
i don’t know
yes
no
maybe
maybe
maybe

i was a ******
12 or 13 year old lesbian
coming out to my friends at lunch
almost choking on my juice
when they said that they already knew
and their immediate acceptance made
me so relieved that i forgot
to chastise them for not
having told me sooner

and i loved my
first girlfriend
like how just seeing her would
let loose a stream of butterflies
into my stomach and i adored every
single one of them

and i loved my
girlfriend even when our
first kiss made the inside of
my bottom lip bleed
but she held my hand
and that made everything alright

but i was a
****** teenage lesbian
because i still felt things
for boys

boys taller than me
and the same height
with their blue
and brown and green eyes
and short hair that i wanted
both on my head
and on my face

and and and i
didn’t know if i wanted
to be with the boys
or be the boys

but my girlfriend with
her soft hands and softer lips
imploring me to crawl into
bed with her on those
early mornings when we
were both a little less than half awake
even she couldn’t make that ache
of wrongness go away

and i was a
****** and angry and
even more confused than before
teenage lesbian girl
but i was just so bad at it
because the part of me
that rationalized i must have been
a queer woman
got so much smaller
that i felt like an imposter
in my own ****** identity

and and and i
longed to be a boy
with a strong jawline
and hair on my face
and a flat chest
and and and i
just didn’t want to be me anymore
because the real me
he wasn’t a girl

and and and the
real me that he
inside of me
for so many years
is able to love boys and girls
and not feel guilty for it
because love is love is love
and i am still alive
to enjoy it

get through the day
just one day at a time
and if that seems like too much
too all at once
all loud and in your face
go by seconds
and then minutes
and then hours
make the in and out of
air in your lungs
a manageable thing

but there is no
clear map when it comes
to survival
because that looks different
for everybody
and a numbered list
could fill all the blank pages
but won’t you think of the trees

and when my depression
grabbed me by the throat
my feet left the ground
as the blueprints left my hands
the plan that i had planned
all neat and laid out
but an addled mind does not
care about that
because it is too busy screaming
and smacking itself against the floor

and sometimes survival looks
like staying up until it is
almost morning again
so you can rock back and forth
in a nest of your blankets
soaked in tears and sweat
sobbing till the line between
heaving breaths and puking
becomes more than blurred
because how do you tell
your family and friends
that you want to die
because it all hurts so much

and sometimes survival looks
like eyes sunken and glazed
shaking hands around a mug
of tea or coffee
with alcohol optional
but not much can mask the
acidic taste of panic
that comes with your heart
continuing to hammer against
your ribs

and sometimes survival
is all smiles
and laughing until you cry
and sloppy kisses
and laying in the middle of a road
on a dead end street with
the person you love most
and your hands are almost
touching and they are so
beautiful and you are alive
and it feels so good
and you are alive
and you are alive
and you are alive
and you are past the survival
and you are LIVING

----
1. no beauty

was it beautiful?
like sitting at a desk
riddled with indents from
keeping the scissors away from skin
rocking back and forth
with only one thing circling
through an addled mind
the overwhelming urge to die
feeling ready to write that final
chapter on a life barely lived

was it beautiful?
forty pills that seemed like
enough at the time
choked down with soda water
and so many built up tears
feeling the rot of depression
absorbing the medicine that was
supposed to make things better
*******

was it beautiful?
regretting waking up hours later
younger sibling in the next room
noticing the stumble
the swearing that came from
feeling organs clench and shatter
but nothing coming up

was it beautiful?
admitting to taking so many pills
tongue feeling shredded by the words
being asked to stay awake
but only feeling so much anger
at having failed
at waking up again
at still being alive

was it beautiful?
three psych wards
every time a voluntary check in
unable to stay safe
healing scars
bashing limbs against every hard surface
ripping open old wounds
both inside and out
there is nothing beautiful
in self destruction

2. no romance

was it romantic?
hospital beds and an iv
in the back of a shaking hand
monitored bathroom breaks
too many to count while a body
too young to feel so old
purged itself of so many toxins

was it romantic?
fingernails chewed down to nothing
ragged cuticles
raw and ****** knuckles
because those hurt just a little bit less
than constantly pulling open
scabbed over splits in
gnawed on lips

was it romantic?
looking for love to give to others
not leaving enough behind to keep
not caring about that
too busy wanting to go home
please fix this
make the hurt go away
make everything shiny and new again

was it romantic?
unable to find respite
from the mental onslaught
in the unmarred arms of another
because illness and depression
do not care about
kissing scars to heal them
or boxes of chocolate
or roses
or whispered “i love you”s
because life is not a
teen romance novel

was it romantic?
wanting to die
even while sitting next to
that person that made things
not hurt so bad
and feeling guilty about fresh cuts
fresh bruises
burn marks that could be explained
away as accidents

was it romantic?
mass media certainly seems to think so
here’s looking at you
john green and jay asher
because why should people have
struggles if they can’t be candy-coated
and wrapped up in neat little bows
with complementary
packets of tissues on the side

was it romantic?
smelling of blood
and sweat from so many nightmares and terrors
trembling and shaking
racked by guilt and anxiety
waiting for an ulcer
waiting for something to happen
to make it seem worthwhile
because in mental illness and trauma
there is no prince
no princess
no damsel in distress
no disney movie happy ending
there is no romance
in wanting
to constantly die

dear mustache,
i used to hate you
because of how dark and prominent
you were against the almost pallor
of my skin

people would
make fun of me for you
in middle school especially
but kids are mean
and i stood out in more
ways than my mustache
that would have been more fitting
on a prepubescent teenage boy
than an angry lesbian

i was
shamed into waxing you away
which hurt so much the first time
that i almost cried
but what hurt more than the hot wax
was my father
whose genes gifted me with
darker and coarser hair
always encouraging me to
bleach you away into an acceptable
shade of invisible

and then
when a switch was thrown
inside my body that had
been crying out from the still
tender age of seven that my being
called a girl was
wrong wrong wrong

you were
there still having always
come back after the wax and bleach

but that
fine line of hairs above
my upper lip
you made me feel more masculine
you made me hate myself less

you make me feel more masculine
you make me hate myself less

that was gonna be me
ya know?
well it almost was
but sometimes
i feel like it really should have been
if only i had tried hard enough

but wouldn’t you know
trazodone is actually really
hard to overdose on
so it seems safe to conclude
that when the paramedic told me
i was lucky i had woken up
he was lying

the bottom line is though
that i thought i was ready
to be that person who so
many others knew
went to school with
grew up with
but then they all would have
continued to age
while i became part of the earth again

and while i was certainly
gone for those few hours
before i woke up
soaked in sweat
tangled in my sheets and
the realization that i had failed
my heart was still beating
and when i was pulled under again
fear gripped me tighter than
my depression and
suicidal urges ever did

because i didn’t want to die
i was only sixteen years old
my sister was in the room
right next to mine
and i wondered what that would
have done to her
if she had found me
and that makes me hate myself
just that much more

but failing that
being an almost statistic
waking up
and voluntarily being admitted
into the psychiatric ward
it made me a survivor
it meant that i wanted to live
and i do
i really do

but there are so many
other scars besides the one
on my skin and possibly some
internal organs
that run like deep grooves
inside of my psyche
and i sometimes wonder
why people that want to die
that do **** themselves
are treated like they did not
want to live
when they wanted to live
the most of all

why does wanting to
have the pain stop
make them bad people?

“to love another
you must first love yourself
fore if you do not love yourself
you can not truly love
anyone else”
what a bunch of crap

the list of things
that i hate about myself
it is far bigger than the things
that i like about myself

i hate my hands
with the chewed-down fingernails
and the chronic tremors from anxiety
and so many different cocktails of medication
that has grown too big to
swallow dry anymore

i hate my mental illness
the auditory and visual hallucinations
that used to plague me constantly
and the depression
the anxiety
the insomnia
the ****** PTSD

i hate that i cut myself
for six years
and the urges still overwhelm
me more than is probably healthy

sometimes i hate that i failed
when trying to **** myself
four years ago

i am a freak in every
sense of the word
but that doesn’t bother me as much
as it used to
because all of my heroes are freaks too
and i still have so much love to give

because i grew up hating myself
raised between two abusive households
where it was made obvious that i
was not wanted by either parent
so i took that love that i was unable
to feel for myself and threw
it out into the world
for those that needed it more than me

i have so much love to give
because that is a terrible thing
to let go to waste
and i have more than enough
to go around

and i hate myself more days
than i love myself
but by giving that gift to others
before myself i think
and i know
that i am slowly learning how to
love myself again
and forgetting what it has felt like
to hate myself since i was
seven years old

so don’t you dare tell me
that i can’t love others until
i love myself
because that isn’t enough of
a reason to keep moving forward
and loving others first is how i
pick up the jagged edges
and smooth them down into something
that is soft once again

you willingly subscribe
to the belief of a god that
encourages you in
and then rewards you for
condemning those that
are seen as other
or different than yourself

but that is not what
the true meaning of this
so called good book
is calling upon you to do

but still you do
picketing funerals of gay people
wishing death upon those
that are of different abilities and minds
and willfully supporting conversion therapy
as if there is enough electricity in this world
to make me stop loving men and women

and this god
this vision of a man
with white skin and long brown hair
but not enough length to make him seem feminine
with his flat stomach and the
fabricated willingness to absolve
us of all our sins
by, ironically enough, being murdered
he still does not scare me

no, what scares me
is what you do in the name of your god
what you believe him to be saying
that because i am a trans man
because i am queer
because i tried to **** myself
i am going to hell

but doing this
using your god
a man proven time and again
to be of middle eastern descent
with an ***** ****** mother
and two fathers
as an excuse to incite violence
upon others
how does that not make you
ask yourself if this is what
he really would have wanted?

but when you can
take this person and raise them upon
a pedestal that forgives you of your hate
what does it matter
what they really said
what they really believed
and that they loved all equally?

this probably has something to do
with why i like to see jesus as a woman
sometimes a trans woman
but mostly because women are
of a gentler human variety
a nurturing sort
inhabiting the universal image
of a mother

and i know that this
god, maybe the one that
i pray to when i don’t know
what else to do
i know that she loves me
despite everything i have done
to others and to myself
she loves me
she loves me
she loves me

----
#1
i remember being a little girl
and holding my friend's hand
who was also a girl
and nobody even gave it a second thought

because the kissing cheeks and
lips but only on a dare
were just us being kids

and even when i wanted
to hold the pretty girl’s hand
who sat next to me on the bus
it wasn’t a big deal
because we were
just friends
just kids

#2
i remember being scared
because i wanted to marry
my girl friends
and live in a big house
with dogs and window seats

but still this wasn’t
a big deal or something to make
a fuss about
because i was still just a kid

nevermind the fact that
i was 12 and then 13
and i had kissed my first girlfriend
in the middle of the street
on a halloween night

and when the lady answered
the door she smiled when she
saw us holding hands
because my costume made
me look like a boy

and the candy sank like a rock
into my guts while my heart
made its home in my mouth
and when my girlfriend asked
me to come and cuddle with her
early that next morning
i rolled over and pretended to still be
sleeping

#3
i remember being a lesbian
meeting my girlfriend
at the mall
and she took my hand immediately
and told me that she wasn’t going
to be scared of doing that in public

and i fell in love with her
the first time i heard her voice
over the phone and through
the grainy webcam on my ****** laptop
and every time her name popped up
on my phone screen
i loved her even more

#4
i remember being a high school freshman
being called a ****
and a *****
and a ******
because of my haircut
and the way that i dressed

and when my bestfriend left
because of the bullying
i felt so alone and afraid

because i was surrounded
by couples that were socially acceptable
since they were a boy and a girl
and i hated their ability
to hold hands and kiss in public without
being bullied
being beaten up
being kicked out by their parents
and being killed

#5
i remember the first crush
i had on a boy as a boy myself
and it was exhilarating and terrifying
because i was social suicide
being queer and transgender

nevermind that i could write poetry
or sew buttons onto pants
or paint
or draw
or cook
or bake
or anything else

because my liking boys
and girls and people who
were both or neither or somewhere in-between
wasn’t cute anymore
since i was grown up

it made me a target
a big red X painted on my back
and to some it made me less than human
because loving who i did
made me a sinner

#6
i remember holding my boyfriend's hand
at school and how ashamed i felt
because of my palms sweating so much
and how afraid i felt

but i also remember how freeing it was
and how i almost cried the first time
he kissed me on the cheek

and i know my girl-self
who was so afraid and angry and sad
would be proud of me
because i hold nothing back now
and i don’t let that fear show
because loving who i love
and holding the hands of boys or girls
or people that don’t conform to either one
does not make me bad

it makes me brave
it makes you brave
it makes us brave

there’s this thing i have
a way to cope with the
anxiety that even though i am
almost done with therapy
for as long as i like
is still a constant thing

you see, i count
by even numbers
maybe because ending
on an odd number
makes my breath puff
out before leaving my lungs
and my head starts to spin

i count evenly
on each inhale and exhale
the number of scars on my arm
the years i spent putting those scars there
the times my mother told me she never wanted kids
and how long it took me to get over that
before she went and said it again

and i count the times that
my mother has said sorry
though that takes less than all
five fingers on one hand
because the things that she has
not apologized for
still keep me up at night

like sending me to school
with fresh bruises in the shape
of her fingers wrapping around my upper arms
like chasing me up to my room and cornering me
and shaking me with spit landing on my face
from how much and how loud she was screaming
like trapping me up against the corner
and pressing her ******* up against my back
and grinding up against me
until i said “enough”
and she replied in swears and blaming me
like her basically sexually assaulting me was
somehow my fault

and when i told the counselor
at my school what had happened
after my friends agreed i should go
that led to my telling a cop through
sobs and so many tears what my mother
had done how she had used me
i counted the number of pills i had taken
two years prior
in an attempt to take my own life
and felt a feeling like i should have known
that forty wasn’t going to be enough

born a host in a body
that was not mine
curled up against small ribs
nestled between vertebrae
so invisible but still there
still real

teeth ground down into
a snarl in the first feeling of anger
at the name and gender
slapped onto this new body
a body whose tongue is too
floppy and unlearned to protest

wrapping tighter around new body parts
blossoming like bruises after
that initial contact of skin on skin
bursting at the seams of this vessel
that can only cry out
wrong wrong wrong

because i have always been here
bursting into full-fledged existence
at the tender age of seven
when my girl-body still lacked the
words to say that this body is not mine
and being called a girl makes
my guts curdle
makes me want to peel off my skin

and here i am now
just like i have always been
making my home in a body
that was meant to hold something else
a daughter
a sister
a neice
a granddaughter
and maybe a mother

but this cage of flesh and bone
it will not hold another body
because in a way i have already birthed
myself up out of the years of pain
and confusion

because i have always been
i have always been
i have always been
i have

-

#1
*******, i am really drunk
accidentally slammed three beers
pretending that the neck of the bottle
was your lips

#2
part of me wanted to text you
staring up into the sky
praying that the stars would swallow me
and my fingers itched to type out
so many things that i would regret
in the morning

#3
and i imagined telling you
confessions of how i felt
and i imagined that little cursor
blinking back at me like so much
apathy and words swallowed
over and again

#4
and i have kissed
my fair share of people
with lips male and female
with faces smooth and some scruff
or a full beard that i envied
but girls have the softest lips
always have

#5
i wondered what it would be like
to kiss you then
holding your body to mine
hoping you would forgive the splits
in my lip that anxiety helped me put there

#6
a good describing word for how
i felt then with three beers and good food
making its home in my belly
would be “blissed”
i was blissed out on ***** and food
and my pining for you

#7
i am sober now
woke up earlier than i would have liked
but then again i fell asleep at 10:30pm

#8
and this thing i feel
it’s like a combination of regret
and disappointment in myself
for not just telling you how i feel
and for needing liquid courage
to get myself to that plateau
of spilling my guts or backing away

#9
and i have forgotten
what my favorite drink tastes like again
in favor of the words to describe
how kissing you for the first time
would surely feel

#10
and i have never felt fireworks
when kissing someone before
even the girl i thought i was gonna marry
and i’m not so young now
and a little bit more cynical
but i wanna feel those fireworks with you
and i still haven’t texted you
and i don’t know if i will
and i don’t know if i should
and i am sorry for being like this

parents tell many lies to their children
for example:
there is no monster under your bed
there are no monsters in your closet
jaws can’t get to you through the shower drain
i’ll love you no matter what

cynical huh?
yeah yeah i know
i gotta work on that
but then my writing would be so boring

so those other lies
they don’t really mean much
in the grand scheme of things
and there other ones for sure
like heaven and hell being real
and you go to hell for being other
and not for the things that you do
to yourself and others

but that last one
is what really messes kids up
and young adults
and suddenly you’re twenty five and
flinching at the parent’s voice
raised at their child to almost
a yell and it is carrying
from five grocery aisles over
and asking yourself just what the hell happened
to get you where you are today

my mom told me that last lie
and i believed her
but not enough to tell her that i
was a lesbian until i had told
what few friends i had at school
and even our dog

and i didn’t tell her at home either
because i wasn’t an idiot
and could smell the alcohol on her breath
when she picked me up from school

so i told her over appetizers
and then maybe a burger at
a restaurant that charged maybe
fifteen bucks for a slice of cake
and she told me back that she
would love and accept me no matter what

and that night
i almost told her that i had felt different
like a freak
like a monster
like i was broken
like a boy
since i was seven years old

but looking back now
from a different gender and sexuality
with scars to prove that where i came from
no child should have to go through that
i am so glad that i didn’t tell her
anything more than that i was a lesbian

because that next morning
she broke the promise that she
had been making since i was
a baby and then a child
that she would love me
that she would accept me
no matter what

and there was fresh alcohol
on her breath and ****
stink sewed into the fabric
of her clothes as she yelled
at me that i wasn’t being authentic
to myself and that i wasn’t being
my real self and that
i just hadn’t met the right boy yet

i stopped telling my mother things
like how i felt wrong in my sexuality
like how i wanted to die
when i started to bleed each month
like how i went to bed with blood
stained onto my wrists
like how i starved myself down
so she would maybe love me again

maybe that’s why
when i finally found the word
for what i was at sixteen years old
i told my blog
and the friend’s family i wished was mine
and the dog again
before i told my mother
that i wasn’t really a girl

and only then did she accept that
i had been a lesbian for the past
three years as a way to throw that
back in my face
because i couldn’t be a boy
if i was a gay woman
and i couldn’t be a boy
if i had no bottom dysphoria
and i showed no signs of it
as a child
but she was just too drunk
and ****** and absent to notice

and she tried to tell me that lie again
how she would love me
how she would accept me
no matter what
but that was followed by how she
still saw me as her daughter
and that was the first time
surprisingly enough
that i thought about slitting my throat

so parents lie to you
they lie about a lot of things
like how they will never die
the things you see aren’t real
the voices you hear aren’t real
you aren’t a monster for being you

so parents lie to you
they lie about a lot of things
like how they say:
i’ll love you no matter what
i’ll love you no matter what
i’ll love you no matter what

i’ll love you no matter what

you are more threatened by
my existence than you give yourself
credit for

and honestly that just baffles me
because i have a hard time killing spiders
and loud noises make me jump

but you don’t care about that
you just care about what you think
is in my pants
and the fact that the gender that is on
my birth certificate is different than
what i was assigned at birth
and my name is different too

but you don’t even care why
and even if you do
it is likely just a farce to give you
more reasons that in your mind
qualify me as a freak and a monster
and a horrible person that is willingly
mutilating the body that god gave me

well god has never had ears for me
and i do pray
i promise that i do
and never mind that it’s usually swearing
but if there really was a god
i like to think that he wouldn’t have stuck me
in a body that i have spent more time
wanting to destroy than actually living in

and i still don’t know
what about that
threatens you in any way
but you sure do feel threatened enough
to **** my brothers and sisters
with guns and knives and
your cruel words
over and over again

and not all of us are old
though 20 in the life of a trans person
could be considered old
since the chances of being murdered
jump a whopping 1%
to transgender individuals having a
1 in 12 chance of being murdered
and a 1 in 8 chance if they are a trans
person of color

and a good number of those people
are children and younger than
your sister or brother
who may be 14 or 12
there are so many deaths
every year
and the only reason that is given
is they were transgender
they were everything but white
and cisgender and heterosexual

so again i will ask
what about my existence makes you feel
so threatened that you think it is okay
to **** me for no other reason than
my daring to live as a male
instead of dying as a woman

“i’ve had hallucinations like that”
no really
and i don’t even need drugs to do it
my brain used to give me all
that nightmare **** for free

but when it happens all the time
everyday is like a bad trip
and it just keeps getting worse
and it left dark circles under my eyes
and shaking hands
and so many cuts on my arm

because there is nothing poetic
about watching great black and bony
wings rip themselves out of someone's back
and you swear that it is snowing inside
since the cold flakes feel so real
and the wall inhales and exhales
against your back as you slide down it
to the floor

and it’s really ******* hard
to find a boy or a girl
that will save you from yourself
when you don’t even know if the
chair that you’re sitting in is real

and it’s really ******* hard
to be saved by someone when that
isn’t realistic in the slightest
and hollywood knows that as well
because mental illness is not a thing
that can be cured by sappy poems
and chocolate and being told
that you are beautiful

because i was not beautiful
i was chewing holes into
the insides of my cheeks
and worrying ****** grooves into
my lips and dried blood
stuck to all the sleeves of my shirts
and so many sleepless nights
because even with my eyes closed
i still saw every horrible thing

and there was no one to save me
because when i told my mother
between sobbing and shaking so much
that my teeth chattered she looked right at me
and told me that i just had an overactive imagination

and that was when the question of
if i knew that the things i saw weren’t real
became so many other moot points
because crazy is as crazy does
and the things i saw
the things i saw
put so many scars on my arms
because blood is real
and if it bleeds it has to be real
it just has to be

----
1. i dream of breaking off needles in my thigh
2. twelve years old was the first time that i wanted to die
3. maybe the needles are a way of making that feeling stay away
4. because there is something inside of me that needs to get out
5. i refuse to die inside of myself
6. and i already tried cutting it out
7. and i already tried taking so many pills that i would sleep forever
8. and i already put so many notes into so many words
9. but that’s all just scars and potentially messed up organs now
10. though much of my writing still reads like a goodbye
11. but old habits die hard
12. and sometimes the only reason i don’t go back is because of the dates on my arm
13. and the ink is not a way of mutilating myself
14. it’s a way to cover up my past mistakes
15. because even though the scars have faded i know they’re there
16. and i am ready to have new scars that do not signify pain
17. but a way of finding my true self under all of that

new place
new home
not so new city
but newly living there
and riding city busses
in the dark
and the near
and the dusk
makes for new feelings
of trepidation
of fear
of anxiety
of nakedness without
someone there beside

so son
he asked father for a knife
not to use on anyone
and the father asked if the son
would use it on himself

and the
son looked down
bare arms on desktop
six years of hurting himself
and he promised that no
he would not use the knife
on himself
not then or ever again

the knife
given then was a truly beautiful
thing with all that blade
and for an instant the old need
to make bleed flooded
the son like water through a ravine
long since gone to cracked mud

but the
son refrained from that
because cracked mud can
surely be beautiful too
and even dead things can
bring forth life
from what they used to be

but then
time passed as it so often
does in seconds and minutes
and days and weeks
and months and then
the father and the son
were not under the same roof

and then
came the days and weeks
and finally months of silence

but that
knife oh the knife it stayed
not against flesh because that was
one promise that would no longer be broken
but instead inside of zipper shoulder bag pockets
and tucked under couch cushions and shoved
to the back of piles on top of a new desk

and time
how it continued to pass
until the son had graduated
and there was no father
to watch him as he walked down
that aisle and to the row of seats
all proud and head held high
in his black gown that
officially marked the son
as being a male

and time
how it continued to pass
until the son stopped answering
the father’s phone calls
and who can blame the son
because the child should not have to
continuously hold together
that lame excuse for
a father and son relationship

and time
it is still passing
and the son well he still has
that knife in his life
constantly moving around places
in his room that is not just a corner
of the living room and a desk and a bed
because he has all those things now
but the father is not in his life

and knives
and tattoos even gifted
from father to son
are not the same as having
a father that actually wants you

is my body a temple
a church
a cathedral
a shrine?

that may be the case
but i am the god
that it was built for

and more often than not
my fingers are knives
and when i spit
it comes out as acid

the walls are melting
the pews are burning
everything is splintered wood
and broken bone

because as a god
i am cruel
i am vindictive
i am capricious
my self-destruction is on a global scale

and there is nothing beautiful
about this mess that
this so called temple is

because i am trying to make
the scars on my arms into
railroad tracks that will take me
far away from this place
i do not want this anymore

and it is easier to
kneel when your kneecaps
have been shattered
but i do not believe in myself
enough to do that

and if my body truly is
a temple
a church
a cathedral
a shrine
it went up in flames years ago

you say “man up”
like that is not what i am doing
because i am preparing to mourn
breast tissue that i never wanted
and i am going to stick a needle in my thigh
my stomach or maybe even my *** cheek
for the rest of my life
to make my outsides look like my insides feel

you say “man up”
and that was the last time
the first and the last time
that i cried in front of you
because when i let those tears
that saltiness spill over my lids and down
my cheeks i know that you didn’t see them
you only saw what made me a woman
and in your eyes
crying easily made me less of a man

you say “man up”
like that is an easy thing to do
like i know how to do that
like i know how it feels
to forcibly stamp down on
everything that i feel that
isn’t a hunger
for meat so rare it bleeds
or wanting to open up a woman from
her thighs onward
or wanting a truck with wheels so big
i cannot even climb up into it
but i must need it
all of those things
to compensate for the **** that i do not have

you say “man up”
and when i say no
you laugh at me
and tell me i am sensitive and silly
and need to learn to take a joke
but these things that you find humorous
are what got me called a freak in middle school
to the point where i took a blade to my skin
for six years because i was always
too much of a boy to be a girl
and too much of a girl to be a boy
and my haircut makes me look like a lesbian
and wanting to wear skirts makes me a girl
and for some reason you seem to think
that it is you and your opinion that
has the ability and the power and the right
to dictate who i am as a person

so when you say to me “man up”
i want you to look not at my *******
or picture what you assume is in my pants
look me in the eye ******
because i want you to see how much your
words hurt and you will watch as i cry
because being told that for so long
is what those words make me want to do
you make me want to cry
your trying to push me into a box
that makes me easier to define
erases who i am as a person

so when you say to me “man up”
just go ahead and assume that my answer
will be no
because i see no shame
in liking skirts
in liking the color pink
in crying easily
in gesticulating when i talk
because there is no shame
there is no shame
in being soft
in being gentle
in being a ******* *****
because now i wear that label with pride
and it no longer hurts
because i am comfortable in myself
because there is no shame
there is no shame in being me
and i am done apologizing

i could tell you you’re beautiful
hell, i have before
a lot of times
and you still don’t believe me
and i don’t know why

but that’s a lie
i know exactly why
because i used to think
i was ugly too

i was an ugly girl
with glasses and nobody
noticed me until i starved myself
down to a double zero because
they all kept bullying me for being fat

and now i’m an ugly boy
but that’s okay
because even dead trees have the
ability to nurture beautiful
life out of their stumps

so no, i will not tell you
that you are beautiful because that
word is used so much and has so many
different definitions of what it is
and isn’t that who is to say what
it really even means anymore

because to me
you are so much more than a pretty face
and kind words

you are the sunrise after a bad night
where i thought i would die
before the sun rose above the tree line again

you are the rain after
a scorching hot day that makes it too
hot to wear my binder

you are the forgiveness
after i tried to leave
and still you stayed
even when i kept on
trying to go

you are the food
that i am still learning not to
be ashamed about eating and enjoying
because weight is just a ****** social
construct like so many other things

you are the calm voice
and steady hands
holding my own shaking ones
when you bring me back
from my anxiety attacks
and promise me it will be okay

you are there
you are here
you are
you are
so much more than beautiful

you are my friend
my confidant
the love blossoming behind my ribs
the scars that wounds become
the pain and happiness and tears

you are so much more
than you think you are

there are three words
on the tip of your tongue
waiting to be grouped into
whatever you want them to be
and they can mean anything
they can heal
they can maim
they can ****
because words scar just like knives

“i love you”
and god did you ever
his eyes that shone with kindness and light
her lips that were always so soft
the first time you kissed a boy
and you held her hand in the mall
not caring who saw you
you have so much love to give
and that makes the past tense
hurt even more

“i’m right here”
and you were
and so were they
when the nightmares got really bad
so bad that they bled over into the day
and seeing great black wings bursting out of
someone's back
sends you reaching out for a hand to hold
something to ground you
because it’s not real
and you’re not crazy

“i need you”
and you always have been selfish
not wanting to be in a world where they
aren’t a text message, a call, or a letter away
because they’ve always been there
even when you hardly were yourself
and you need them
you do
and you probably always will
and that is not a bad thing

“i’m so sorry”
and those three words
are said with tears in your eyes
snot dripping from your nose
and it does not matter why
you are saying sorry
be it because of self-infliction
or otherwise
because you’ve hurt them
but you just don’t want them to go

“please don’t go”
and these words are said
in so many contexts and settings
like reaching out from the bed
and grabbing onto them
because sleeping alone is too quiet
or you run after them
leaving food and drinks to cool
because what good is food
and sleep and drink
if you’ve gotta go it alone

“i love you”
and aren’t those the most
important words that you will ever say
to her and him and them
because they will linger
in the best and worst ways
through years and cities and states
they never go away
because baring your heart and soul
to another person
another being
like that is both the greatest sacrifice
and greatest thing you will ever do

“you’ll be okay”
and a parting gift for you
dear reader and viewer of this work
because even though those three
words do sound cliche
they are the most true things
that have ever been spoken
because you will heal
wounds will scar over
sleepless nights will stop adding up
and you will be so happy to be alive
you’ll be okay
i know it

I loved this boy

with long hair the

color of chestnuts

or, black coffee

my eyes are bad

so, I can’t really be sure

I loved this boy

I still do

maybe just a little bit

but, enough that it hurts

And, sometimes, I can’t sleep

because of all the horrible

things that I have said to him

how many times we made

each other cry

I wrote the boys

name in the snow

before stomping on it

because, in all honesty

that was an easier thing to do

than profess my love to him

Now, this was not in love

nor was this puppy love

it was more than a friendship

more than a sibling

This boy, he stole my heart

and ground it in to

a fine, red powder

under his worn out sneakers

If someone were to

look closely,

not that anyone would want to see

me shirtless, there is a little invisible scar

where his name used to be

resting over my heart

This boy, I remember that,

one time, he let me run my fingers

through his hair,

and I almost cried because his

eye lashes were so soft where they fluttered against my fingers

This boy, now a young man

I sometimes watched him

instead of eating my lunch

I often noted the way that his

spine and every little marble that made it up

along with the flesh and bone

could be seen through his shirt

I longed to run my fingers

up and down that thin line

and tell him how beautiful I thought he was

how much I loved him

I want to demand he take back

all the horrible things

that we said to each other

and force me to say sorry

Because, my god, do I miss him

and the horrible nick names I gave him

since, sometimes, saying his name

was too painful

The horrible cards and pictures I made him

out of the few that I found in the trash

he told me that he kept even more

I blushed like an idiot

Since, when I knew this boy

it was before I had taught myself

not to cry in front of people

because, to show any emotion

is a clear sign of weakness

Which is what I am

I am weak

as are my knees

with love for this boy

Who can’t even say my name

let alone look at me

with disgust in his beautiful eyes

though I can’t remember the color

and a curl in his mouth

that was usually only reserved for himself

I’ve managed to, at least partially, convince myself that what we had was all *******.

That she didn’t mean any of the things that she said.

That I was just a convenient little something to show off until she moved on to the next flavor.

Just something to manipulate and play with.

I was warm clay under her scarred and burned hands.

She made me into pretty shapes to satisfy her mood swings.

I was putty to her.

Just a mass of scars and good intentions turned sour by the cruel hands of time.

She never loved me.

She used me.

And, I enjoyed every minute of it.

I loved it.

To be touched.

To be told such sweet things.

I tell myself that it was all *******, every single ******* second of it, because, pretending that it was all fake, is easier than admitting that I am too damaged for anyone to love.

For anyone to fall in love with.

I am no longer damaged goods.

I am just damaged.

When wrote about you, I found my soul.
But I don’t know how to make it go away.

I have a problem with going to funerals.

But, with the way that I dress, the way that I act, you would think that I would be fine hanging out with a dead family member, right?

Yeah, no.

I hate funerals.

And, it’s not because I’m an insensitive *******.

You’ve all witness my breakdowns.

I eat the food afterwards.

Listen to people pray to a god that I don’t believe in.

Listen to people talk about a heaven that I don’t believe in, and wouldn’t get into, anyway, even if I did.

I drink the watery coffee.

I listen to my family talk about how proud they were with themselves because they didn’t cry, and feel weak and broken, ****** up, flawed, for sobbing so hard that my shoulders shook.

I look at the person in the coffin.

But I don’t see them.

I have a problem with funerals in general.

I tend to stand there, useless.

Though I have been known to give hugs to people when they are about to cry.

My problem, though, is not that I am afraid of death.

I am afraid of living, and being alone, more than anything.

My problem is that I have the strongest urge to run up to the coffin, and shake the person laying there, yell at them to wake up.

To just wake up.

To please just wake up.

Because they promised that they wouldn’t leave me.

But, everybody leaves.

Everybody leaves.

Fill a bathtub

with my sorrow

so sweet

so cold

so sharp

so

I can drown

myself in it

Now

Don’t you worry

your pretty little head,

my love

Safe is my middle name

On every day that

doesn’t end

in

Y

I was drinking tea.

Or, trying to.

The key word is trying.

I kept on choking,

and coughing,

and gagging.

Now my throat hurts.

Almost as much as it did

when I decided to strangle myself.

Second -hand smoke

it doesn’t bother me

anymore.

After all both of my parents

smoke

smoked

smoke

******.

I could name

so many people that I know

walking around with packs

of cancer sticks

in their back pockets.

All the people that

I have

walked with

behind

careful not the breathe too deeply.

All the people that

I have

talked with

kept quiet

inhaling and exhaling

in perfectly murderous synchronization

I want to *** a smoke

cancer stick

like you used to smoke

swallow their lighters

little booklets of matches

burn apart from the inside out

drowning in my own blood

I am

the breakfast I didn’t eat

day old scars littering my arms

the burning peroxide running down the drain

water not yet tinged pink by blood

I am

the chips eaten at 2 AM

pills swallowed dry

scraping their way down my throat

contemplating a silent suicide

I am

the hand tremors

so bad I can hardly write

unfortunate side affect of the meds

keeping the demons at bay

I am

the last fare well

apologizing until my throat bleeds

for the slip ups and people I failed

scattered over my skin over and over again

I

am

human

but

I

don’t

really

want

to

live

You are a novel

lodged behind my ribs

jammed into the shattered remains of my heart

I can feel the internal bleeding

slowly killing me

how I wish it would hurry the **** up

You are a novel

stuck in my lungs

worse than cigarette smoke

You are a novel

a novel

a novel

a novel

A NOVEL

You are a novel

with

blank

pages

invisible ink

and dried blood

You are a novel

and I want to tear out

shred

maim

massacre

and burn

every single mother ******* page