Whatever is is
any tighter
and
it'll **** me

thinking back
to the so many versions of me
my younger selves
would they be afraid of me now
would they wonder what had happened
what would they think of the scars
on my left arm and shoulder
deep enough that the slices didn’t bleed
right away but slowly filled up and spilled over
and the metal in my face
the dark purple hollows under my eyes
and the sneer on my lips
the bitten skin and the splits that
tear and sting whenever i speak
would they try to stop the shaking of my hands
wrap duct tape around my dull fingertips
so that i will at least be able to salvage some nail
and what would they think
when i told them about the time that
i bruised my knuckles against my
own skull
trying to get the voices to shut up
but all i got was a headache
and fingers that hurt when i unclenched them
would they try to massage a feeling that
wasn’t pain back into my jaw
or would they stay away
because i can be scary
i guess
and my anger and depression
has become a palpable thing
but i don’t mean it to be
i would peel away my walls
of barbed wire and broken promises and hearts
and i would bare it all for them
i really would
because i want to show them
that i am still here
i am still going
i still wake up every morning
and even on days when i have to force myself
to go through the motions
i still do it
for them
for my past selves
and my future selves
but without my past selves
the younger versions of me
with their clothes smelling of ****
and alcohol and so many days of dried blood
i would not have made it
and god i am so sorry i tried to destroy them
but i promise i will keep them safe now
lock them up in a box inside myself
nothing will hurt them anymore
i will be who they needed
way back when
and i will do my best
to keep on going
even though it hurts
more often than not
i will keep going
i promise i will
i will make you proud
you of the skinned knees
and untied shoes
the barefoot romps
through grassy fields
and the first time someone else made your nose bleed
i will be there
i will make you proud
i promise
and maybe when we meet again someday
you will come closer
and you will not be afraid of
what you have become

I met jesus
in a Powell's bookstore
we were mere ants under
his mighty boots

We took turns
following each other around
he left trails of blue ink
all along the book spines
and I wanted to lick it up

He bought my
coffee and a two day old scone
the only question he asked me
was why I didn't believe in him
when I said I didn't know

He said that
it was okay because
sometimes he didn't
believe in himself
either

I met jesus
at a simple little bookstore
and realized that
he was nothing more
than a man

an ulcer waiting to happen
sits in the metaphorical pit of my stomach
it has been there for years

I feel it in
the shaking of my hands
from medication that made it chronic
and the fidgeting of myself

my feet tap
my knee bounces
and sometimes it is only the
1 2 3 4 of counting my glasses
an earring in each ear
and my septum piercing
that keeps me sane

but that is often not enough
these movements do not quiet
the urges to flee

and I curse my anxiety
a disorder that is slowly
eroding my insides and outsides

I curse this disorder
from the cuts chewed into my lips
the blunted and bitten fingernails
down to my legs that are always
ready to go go go
because this isn’t who I was supposed to be

my shoes
vans bought from goodwill
for way less than they would be
in the mall store
with strawberry shoelaces that
are a bit too short
but effectively turn the shoes into
slip-offs
leave pine needles and dirt on the
old gray bus seat where my feet rested
as i read
head back against the window
skull knocking along with the bumps in the road
losing myself in someone else’s fictional life
as i stand to leave
i brush them off with a shaky hand
watching as they land on the floor
and brush the seat once more for good measure
wondering how many other pieces of myself
i have left behind me

i first started hating my body
when i was seven years old
it was christmas eve
and by then i was too old to believe
in santa
but we still put out cookies and milk
for my little sister
and i asked my mom if i could
eat the cookies and have the
milk that year
she just looked at me
like i was an idiot
and asked me if i wanted to
get even fatter and be
just like santa

that was the year that i
also decided i hated christmas
i mean sure
i still loved giving and receiving gifts
and the family and friends
but the two week break and the
endless snow days were the hardest
because that meant that i had to
spend all day with my mother

because by then
she was done with being christmas mommy
all smiley and cheerful
and loving
only saying nice things
and had gone back to her
bottle and blunt

my fingers and toes were cold
as the years wore on
and in our white house
the toilet water in mom’s bathroom
froze solid
because we didn’t have enough money to
heat the whole house
but we sure as hell had enough money
to buy liquor

but liquor doesn’t make
a rumbling tummy quiet
and the warmth from brandy
only lasts for so long
before the sickness sets in
so i turned to vanilla extract
just a quick swig now and then
and i was warm
but not as warm as my little sister looked
with mom’s arms wrapped snug around her

and the canned food drives that went
on at school
i brought in what i could
giving up my lunch or dinner to
those that needed it more
but we were always on the list for
the food baskets
and the gifts from the school sants
and the cardboard boxes of
food from the church pantry
wielded nothing but
slits in my skin that burnt even more
with the cold
and dusty oatmeal for breakfast

it’s gotten better though
it really has
there is food in the cupboards and
in my belly
though i would rather not eat
but mom still comes home smelling of liquor
and christmas mommy still loves me
more than year-round mommy
ever could
ever will

I do not stitch
hands shake too much
for that
but I will carve
the words
into the tender flesh
of my *******
boy
boy
BOY

the first time i pledged my allegiance
to something that i didn’t believe in
i was in kindergarten
it was my first day in a real school
not just preschool
and everything was so big
it smelled new
and the floor still squeaked
under my shoes
but then the teacher had us stand up
behind our desks
we put our hands over our hearts
and faced the flag hanging near the
door at the front of the classroom
little hands over even smaller hearts
and i lied my way through it
because i knew
even back then
that there was not
liberty and justice
for all

this went on for years
and every time i said those words
every time i pledged my allegiance
to that piece of fabric
i felt sicker and sicker
and it made me even more angry
because it was so unfair
and watching the news made
me cry
and the world
was still eating itself alive
and all i did was stand there
with my hand over my heart
and mouth along to the
words that my classmates
said with such conviction
but with such robotic tones

then i stopped
sure i still stood for the pledge
during assemblies
but there was nothing left
in me
i had no more belief
and allegiance to give
to this flag
because it was not a symbol
of strength and togetherness to me
no not anymore
it only reminded me
of how different i was
and when the pledge was spoken
when our trust was promised
people like me
were not included in that liberty and justice

the breathing of the world
is erratic
but for some it has stopped altogether
and i worry
i wonder if it could happen to me
because of course it could
but just the act of thinking that
i could be calling you
texting you frantically
because i have not heard from you
and the phone is just buzzing next to you
but you can’t answer it
baby you can’t pick up the phone
why can’t you pick up the phone
please pick up the phone
good god please answer
is simply too much

and to think that
a fellow human being
would do this to you
my brothers and sisters
is sickening
the world is at war
and it is not on foreign soil
it is right here
in the streets
and the night clubs
where we should be safe ******
because we need safe spaces
for this exact reason
but how safe can it be
when you can’t pick up the phone
baby please pick up the phone

and even though
none of my blood and bone
were there
i feel this deep in my core
a kind of sadness
that makes me cry in coffee shops
rocking back and forth
in front of people that i don’t know
and i can spend hours curled up
in a chair
making myself smaller and smaller
maybe i will disappear altogether
and this will not happen again
but of course it will
it always does

because
the right to carry a gun
out of the spacious locker in
their homes
and into the streets
is more important than your lives

and god i am so sorry
that you have to live among these people
that you
my beautiful wolves and lionesses
have become the hunted
we are not prey
we are not wrong
we are not a sin
and this
being yourselves
and loving who you want to
should not be a death sentence

#prayfororlando

John Green and Jay Asher
they are at war
between each other
in an epic battle of epic proportions
to see who can glorify and romanticize
the most terrible and potentially life-ending things

ACT 1:
Jay Asher started first
with 13 Reasons Why in 2007
because why can’t suicide and depression
and blaming that on other people
be romantic, huh?!

Well from first hand experience
there is nothing romantic about being so depressed
that you want to die

I was 12 years old
two years after Jay Asher’s book came out
and I was in my room
not knowing about the book
cutting myself for the first time
and jesus christ I bled like a stuck pig

Fast forward to seventh grade
three years after the book was out on shelves
and I had my own copy
that I read through in one day
and came away from it with a vaguely
sick feeling in my stomach

Because I saw myself
in that girl
who wanted to die so badly
that she actually went through with it
but what I couldn’t understand was why
she felt the need to set up this sick game
where she gave 13 whole reasons why
to her fellow students
some of which she had never talked to
they were each why she had killed herself
like what the hell

And even more so
I couldn’t understand why
Jay Asher thought he had the right
to write this book
to make suicide and depression
into this tragic and romantic
and horribly glorified thing
because being suicidal is just so much fun

But what wasn’t fun was
jumping ahead a few more years
to when I was 16
and doing online school because of the massive
mental breakdown I’d had over Christmas break
in my freshman year of high school
and I tried to **** myself

And there was nothing romantic
about waking up in the middle of the night
and then in the morning
and having to tell my mother
that I had taken forty of my sleeping pills
there was nothing romantic about that at all

ACT 2:
then in 2012
just five years after Jay Asher’s book
it was John Green’s turn to fire back
and since depression and suicide and blaming that
on other people was already taken
why John just shrugged his shoulders and
made it his mission to
romanticize and glorify the big C of diseases
CANCER

Because what isn’t romantic
about these two dying kids
and so many others and chemo
that makes you puke and strips your body
of its immune system so that a cold
might **** you
and what isn’t there to glorify about radiation to ****
the thing that is attacking your body
from the inside out and even if the radiation
does **** your white blood cells
and leaves you wide open for all other kinds of infection
at least the cancer is temporarily under control right

Because even if you lose your hair
and your brain has a potential of being damaged
as well as your thyroid
blood system
heart
gastrointestinal tract
reproductive tract
and bone marrow
just think
an author may choose to make a romance story
around this disease that is slowly killing you
and doesn’t that make you feel better

And even though
if Augustus Waters was real
almost every girl and guy within a five
mile radius would probably sneer
at the cigarette that was never lit
because it’s all about the metaphor sweetheart
he was just the perfect guy in the book and then
in the movie where the audience was
actually able to kind of not really see the
prosthetic leg that that character had
because hey why just go after cancer
when you can go after amputees as well
go big or go home ya know

And even though
the book wasn’t so much about cancer
as it was about this girl
that even though she literally has to
wear a cannula all the time
and drag around an oxygen tank so that she
can even breathe
at least she can still somehow have *** right
and there’s no bruises in the morning
because that wouldn’t be realistic to
someone suffering from cancer right

This is where you nod along
and try not to think of the
people you know that have had cancer
two of which have died
and just get through the book
because who are you to let the
cute little pastel blue packet of tissues
that come with the book
go to waste huh

ACT 3:
Well god
big kahuna in the sky that you are
you see mam sir holy mother and father
I have never harmed a book before
except in that I dog-ear the pages
I wanted to burn these two books so bad
that it almost physically hurt
like going to the funeral of a good friend
and I saw red I was so angry
and it hurt so much

Well god you see
I have a proposition for you
okay and it’s a good one

Well god you see
I’ll go out and buy these two books
The Fault In Our Stars
and 13 Reasons Why
and I’ll build a great big funeral pyre
and burn them into the ground
okay and then you take those ashes
they’re all for you
take them
and give me back my friends

my hands are shaking
not with anxiety
i tell myself sternly
but with the caffeine
and too sweet bagel i had
for lunch
this is a sugar rush
or it might be the cold
that is turning my toes pink
setting my teeth chattering
and making my chest tight
maybe it is something else
but i don’t want it to be
please just let it be the cold
and not some ridiculous fear
of being alone

i am just another echo
against the walls of
this house

0.
my fears come in fours
or to be exact
there are four of them
a nice even number
but i cannot overcome these ones
and there are certainly more
where they have come from
but these are the ones
that i live by
or the ones that live by me
either way
they are the controlling factors
that make up my psyche

1.
i am afraid of the dark
and no
i am not kidding
people usually don’t believe me
when i tell them this
because i surround myself with
dark things and i guess
i seem like a dark person
and the argument
that when i close my eyes it
will be dark anyway
does nothing to comfort this
it just makes me feel more ridiculous
an eighteen year old with a nightlight

2.
storms
mother ******* storms
even a little bit of rain
can send me scurrying
to my room to hide under
a pile of blankets
as if this can protect me from
the elements
and driving in it is even worse
i white-knuckle my way through
the miles and the hours
feeling the wind
and pouring rain
hail snow sleet thunder
and lightning
it sends waves of fear to my bones
and i grit my teeth so hard
i fear my teeth will crack
and splinter
like the trees and fences and power lines

3.
it is not dying that scares me
i am not afraid of death
i embrace it
i will be the curator
of my own destruction
but it is dying alone
that scares me the most
and yes
i know that even if i were to die
with other people
i would still die by myself
because my light snuffing out
will not be like anyone else’s
i know this
and that does not scare me
what scares me is being alone
when i die
i don’t want to die
by bottle or pill or knife
with my only company being
my self-destruction
the dark passenger will not escort me
to the other side
but i wouldn’t mind dying
holding your hand

4.
i am afraid of my mother
but this is not something that i can
just come out and say forthright
it has to be treated casually
just slipped into conversation
taking the words from
what is your favorite kind of cake to
and i am afraid of my mother
but anyway
what is your favorite flavor of frosting
and the key is to say this quickly
let the sentence blur together
let the thickness of the tongue
slur the vowels into one long string
no spaces are needed with this
confession
because no matter how this is said
this little confession
an admittance of what is wrong
of what haunts my sleep
and my day time
and all my time
people will still look at me like
i am this little broken thing
but no
i am not broken
i will not let her break me
but this fear
it will not go away
and i am ashamed of it

going to church didn’t stop the
constant chattering of my teeth
and my psych nurse says it’s just
a side effect
but i’m certain that it is all the
words that i have never said
the ones that i am too afraid to say
they are tearing my mouth apart
and it feels like my tongue is going to
be bitten in two
maybe my teeth will jump out of my
mouth and do a little dance
a ****** little dance
i have done those before
so many ****** little dances
over and over again

my mother said that it would
be disrespectful of my to keep
the rosary from my great grama’s
jewelry box
even though it was just a little old
pink colored and plastic thing
because i don’t believe in god
but ******
i just wanted to be closer to her
when wearing her earrings aren’t
enough because her sweet old voice
whispering in my ear
is drowned out by the screaming
screaming scream constantly screaming
voices and i just want to be close to her
i want to lay next to her
feel her warmth next to me
but she has been gone for years

my friend i know that you
are sad so very sad
but it does not last forever
and yeah i can’t lie and say that
i have never considered taking my
own life
i have nightmares about my suicide
and those times i actually succeed
but that is not the easy way out
think of how much that would
mess up your family and your friends
my dear friend take your fists away
from the side of your head
put your safety on
even making a finger gun isn’t
allowed in my house
i even feel guilty for having the toy
little two plastic cowboy guns that i keep
in a box under my desk
like they will protect me from what is inside
of my head

please put the blades down and
yes it does matter where you got
them from
whether they made it out of the store
in your pocket
the cardboard rubbing against your thigh
salvaged from pencil sharpeners
because you do not need a scalpel
the only surgery you are performing
is on your self
and your self hatred
and that is not what growing up is about

i remember wanting to grow up
when i was just a little boy
but there were no marching bands in the
city there were only pride parades
and i was too young to join in
but now i would give anything
to be a little kid again
this is what keeps me up at night
to the sound of my family breathing
all throughout the house
and i am the only one awake
but growing up does have it’s perks
you get stronger
you get to stay out later
you get to move out
you can date whoever you want
i mean **** yeah
you can be who you really are
because you are a grown lady or man
you are all grown up
and that is when your life truly begins

so put down the pills the
blades and turn the safety on with your
finger gun
take your fists away from your head
throw away the notes you wrote
because nobody should ever have to read them
no i am not going to make you promise not to
do these things when the world comes crashing down
but i do want you to know that they are just a crutch
they may help you walk now
but later on they will only drag you down
and growing up means moving forward
though sometimes it is two steps forward
and one step back
but you will get better
there is a light at the end of the tunnel
and no it is not hellfire
it is the bright light of a new day
where the sun is shining
and the smile on your face is genuine
because growing up also means growing out
out of your old habits and into the process of
loving your body
and who you have grown up to become
because hating yourself
but then loving and accepting yourself
is what growing up is all about
and you are going to make it
****** i believe in you
and i will be there for you
every step of the way

the last thing i thought
before i fell into that
sleep of the ******
that only 40 pills and over
a thousand mg can provide

i realized that
even before i had started writing
about you
that i wouldn’t be able to write
about you

and that scared me even
more than the thought that i would
never be held again
because to me the written word
is more powerful than any touch

and i never got a chance
to thank you
because i really am thankful
for your not letting me through the pearly gates
even though i smashed my knuckles raw

i smashed my hands until
bone stuck out through my tattered skin
******
and still you did not heed my calls
my pleas to let me in

and when i woke up
later that night
and then again and again
at first i was angry
but now i am thankful

and i am never going to
be able to thank you
and that makes me angry all over again
but mostly sad
an endless cycle

i am the top that is
endlessly spinning around the ghost
of your name on my tongue
i long to be in your presence again
please come back

but really
thank you for not opening the door
but when it really is my time
i hope that you will open up the door wide
and welcome me home with a smile

I am going to a funeral
not sure who for
but it could be any one of us
when his men come to our door


We’ve spent our lives in closets
content with safety over view
but even that gets old
and **** we just wanted a fresh breath or two


So out we came
again and again
a never ending stream
but it felt so good to finally come clean


And now here we sit
under the jurisdiction of our new “president”
a man who hates our kind
and a vp who supports conversion therapy


So don’t you dare tell us
that we should not be scared
because we have PULSE to back us up
and so many years of the same old *******


We are tired
and scared
and wary of all
because who knows who could be the reason why we fall


So please
I beg of you
come and stand with us
hold our hands but do not speak over us


Because we need you
the majorities and all
to stand up to this menace
we do not want to fall


I do not want to go to funerals
that could have been prevented
so please friends hear my words
and take them to heart


Fore there are already too many hashtags
dedicated to my brothers and sisters
and we must end this campaign of hate
because we the minorities are all tired of going to funerals

my parent’s do not want me
neither one does
that is two of them
count em
fits on one hand
took two to make me
and both of them to send me away

i do not have a home with my mother
she has made that more than clear
kicked me out three times
and it was because i had decided that
i was no longer going to let her abuse me
giving her my childhood and 11 years of my life
was more than enough
and for ***** sake
i had already tried to **** myself to get away from her
and it didn’t work
so ****

my father is an *******
never has known how to be a parent
he can do weekends and overnight once in a blue moon
but ask him what’s for dinner
and suddenly he’s your slave
and you’re holding him hostage because of how fickle you are
yup sounds about right
and he just can’t stand not to have his living room any longer
he needs it
he just needs it so terribly
but no no dear one dear heart apple of my eye
he is not kicking you out
just being an abusive and manipulative ****

and i really do wonder
why my mother and him didn’t work out
because after all
they are just the same
abusive
prone to substance abuse
both have been alcoholics
though my mother may be more of a lush now
i don’t know
i don’t live with her anymore
but i guess they didn’t work out
because it must be really hard
to see yourself in the person that you are *******
and not just in a ****** way
but they are just like you
and ******* you hate it so much

so you leave them
don’t bother being in your only child’s life
until they are seven
and the child cuteness has left
and has been replaced by
a something
this is not your daughter
this is a ****** up kid
who doesn’t know what the hell they are
but is too afraid to ask or tell
either one of their parents
because mommy just wants to put bows in her daughter's hair
and daddy just wants to sleep all the ******* time
so hush little baby
keep it under wraps until it kills you

and *******
i come from a **** sandwich of a family
neither of my parents want me
two slices of abusive and crazy
with me right in the middle
and god
please don’t let me turn out like either one of my parents
i would rather die than be like either of them
and isn’t that sad
but who is surprised
at this point

because these two people
pathetic excuses for a parent
both of them
each of them
in the same and their own special ways
can’t even be bothered to try and glue back
together the broken vase pieces of their
son

and you know what
i hope the ******* step on the glass

That's right
*******
my body
my skin
this flesh prison
is mine alone
and just because I
swam down the length
of your birth canal
does not make me
your property

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

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

I have never really
written letters
just poems
but if the letters
I were to write
would make you feel
beautiful
then I would write
you letters
everyday

Being myself
my TRUE self

i have never been sexually assaulted

but i have been abused

since i was just a little boy

i was seven years old

and i felt so alone

and wrong

and hated

and everybody just

told me to smile

like that could

make the bruises on my wrists

from my mother dragging me around

fade

like it would make the hatred i felt for myself

go away

and i have stayed up all night

talking to my friends

so they wouldn't hurt themselves

or worse

and they did the same to me

and the circles under my eyes

and coffee on my breath

were taken so lightly

but how could i go to sleep

mother

knowing that my friends

had the power and

reasons

to end their own lives

to tear open their skin

to swallow handfuls of pills

how could i

how could i

and you yelled at me to go to bed

but ******

i couldn't

because they had done the same for me

even on school nights

but you don't understand

because this hasn't happened to you

but to me

it is very real

it is happening now

it is all i know

the yelling

the crying

the blame

the abuse

and so much hatred

for you

but mostly for myself

and you do not understand

because it has not happened

to you

hey!
yeah you
listen up
step away from the keyboard
and watch as my fingers fly
nimbly over the keys
never mind if it sounds like
i am smashing them into submission
chances are i am

but please try not
to cry or cringe
at what you see
it is one word
three letters
and i even went to the trouble
of putting spaces in between
B O Y

do you see that
that word
that wonderful magical
true and encompassing
word

it is you
and you are it
one and the same
B O Y

and even on the days
when you do not see it
there is someone out there
who will **** hickeys
into your chest
that spell out the word
and you will see that word
when you shower
or change
it will be there
like a bruise
blooming like a flower
against pale skin
B O Y

for this is what you are
through the good and the bad
whether you realized it at three
or forty
that is still valid
you are valid
and you always will be

you are a boy
******
you are male
and ***** be ******
because your ***** are
still bigger
they just hang from a different spot
but i understand the need and
the want to cut them off
and that does not make you a
bad person
it makes you
a survivor

you are doing
the best you can
in concerns to your body
and the world around you
i know this
i do

because i hear your voice
whenever i see a picture of you
and you are telling me that you
love me
and i know that you are scared
but you are still here
and that makes you a hero in my eyes

you are a boy
you are a boy
you are a boy
you are

Before going to bed last night, my last thought was, I hope I die in my sleep. Well, actually, that’s only part of it. Imagine a train colliding with a truck full of fireworks and then having somebody throw you into the flames. That’s about what my thoughts were like last night. Ah, sweet suicidal tendencies
22. Unfortunately, no.

I cannot.

23. I’ve felt like stabbing myself in the eye with a pen.

24. Is that in dollars?

Hell.

Pencil sharpeners, CDs, and books.

29. I stayed up until 12.

Because my sleeping pills hadn’t kicked in, and I was too busy blaming everything on myself for sleep.

39. I am wearing fluffy pajama pants that make me feel about 5 years old.

Scorpio
and ox
set in my ways
my own
worst enemy

After 72 hours
without sleep
insanity sets in
but what is worse
a caffeinated blood stream
or bruise-like hollows
under lifeless eyes?

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

1.....
there is a rotten smell
permeating this particular instance
of public transit
and i wonder if it is me

is this the aftermath of
what i never coughed up for you
in the midst of my unrequited love?

it wouldn’t be flowers for you, though
i think clovers would have been more fitting
like the one that you gave me
hand-crafted pendant on a leather cord

and i really have to be more careful
with my heart, don’t i?
all these pretty things i can write about love
can’t hold a candle to the real, reciprocated thing

and i realize now it was unfair of me
to ask of you something you could not give
but i love you just the same
albeit it with less heartache and tears

2.
that rot must be coming from me
and the roses
pink like the sunset and downy soft
i planted between my ribs for you

did you see that garden?
how i tried to give you everything i had
the way i allowed you to take and take
and asked for little in return?

but what is a garden
when it is trapped behind towering walls
with no one to see the way all those flowers shine,
and what a lonely thing that is

i choked myself on roses for you
and that wasn’t enough
was i not enough?
hard not to feel like it, if you must know

but i have better things to do
than make my throat bleed
with all these words and love
with nowhere to go

i think it’s time that i plant
some flowers for myself
no more roses or clovers
but maybe dandelions this time

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.

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.

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

There used to be
stars in my eyes
constellations
on my skin
but now there is
nothing left but
black holes
and scars

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

Abuse
mental emotional verbal physical
Neglect
Alcoholism
it's lasted way longer than that
and not just seven
it's enough for a
life-time

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?

Either way
I don't care
because I write for
myself only
and alone
keeps the demons at bay

I used to be able to
count to a thousand
and walk backwards
with my eyes closed
and these were
to my little kid self
great feats of skill
but then
later in life
I resigned myself to the fact that
I would never feel close
to how alive those
small things had made me feel
but then
there was her
and when she left deep purple
hickeys up the length of my arm
nine in total
one for every letter of
her name
they were only on the surface
of my skin
but I felt alive
all the way down
to my bones

i didn’t **** her, you did.

Carrying books like
one would a baby
nestled in one arm
and tight against the hip
he wonders
is he an idiot
or just nostalgic
heart-sick with memories
of him and mother
reading together
and she called him
her little girl

i smell like a family
there is drool on my shoulder
blending into the fabric
of my flannel
where i held my friend’s baby
and i kissed her head and
her little face
and told her i loved her
and she giggled
and burbled back at me
and soaked my shirt in drool

there is dirt and grit
clinging to my skin
and my hair
where i held my friend close
after so many months of
radio silence on both our parts
and told him i loved him
and i smell like him
a lingering scent of
earth and travel
because for a nomad
the road is their home
but now he is so domestic
and underneath his usual smells
he smells like soap and clean clothes
and while this is strange
i am happy for him

i press myself into my friends
an extended family
ever expanding
i try to take in as much
of their scents as i can
because i naively hope that
i can drown out the smell
of fear and sleepless nights
and cold sweats that cling to me
i do not want to smell like my nightmares

i let them permeate my skin
and they stay with me
even if they are miles
and years away
i keep little parts of them
and they keep me going
they keep me whole

because family doesn’t
end with blood
but it doesn’t start there
either

i don’t know how to
make the pain of
my father’s abandonment
stop hurting

this is a wound
covered by a flimsy scab
prone to cracking
and seeping through the dressings

i have so many questions
and no answers
all this speculation
years of blaming myself for
his not knowing how to
not wanting to
be a father
be MY father

and i was just a kid
telling my classmates that
i didn’t even have a father
because he lived states away
while that void grew
bigger and darker inside me

and it has been nearly
three years since the last time
i saw my father
even though we live in the
same ******* town

but this is not the first time
that contact have been lost
it just never started again
since i stopped reaching out
and finally put myself first
where my father is involved

just because you’re someone’s
father doesn’t mean you’re a dad
and i can’t remember when i stopped
seeing his face when i thought
of having a dad
but it’s been too **** long

and it feels strange
to even call him my father
but that’s about as informal as
i can get without calling him
by his first name
ya know?

and maybe i’m just
searching for closure
an apology that will never come
that reassurance that i wasn’t a bad kid
the promise that it’s not my fault

and maybe if those things are
said with enough conviction
by the right person
at the right time
i’ll believe them

i just want this
to stop
hunched over at my desk
crying until my lungs hurt
wondering what i did wrong
i was just a kid

i was just a kid
and i needed a father
i needed a dad

but i won’t force him
to be my father
to be in my life
because he clearly doesn’t want to
doesn’t know how to

and all i want right now
is to find a way for
the wound that this prolonged
cycle of abandonment left
to stop bleeding through my shirts

i want to stop seeing his face
whenever i look in the mirror
i want to stop asking myself why
i want to stop blaming myself
because i was just a kid

i was just a kid

I am a poet
am I
really
well I guess I
could be

I know how to
write in stanzas
and hit the ENTER key

My fingers
and the sides of my hands
are ink-stained
cut me open
and I bleed
blue black and red

I have learned
to tame the demons
in my head
with a well-placed
smattering of words

I can write worlds
into existence
and if I really tried
I could write down stars
into a jar
to hold on the coldest
of nights

So yes
I am a poet
an author
a keeper of words

I dreamed
makes more sense than saying
nightmared about
dying
taking my life
I choked on stomach acid
and blood
it felt so real
and it just kept happening
I thought I was in hell
I thought I'd never
wake up

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 am not a liar
I'm just a writer
but my imagination
my mind
is a rabid and
hungry beast
it eats everything
devours it whole
but it only spits one
thing out
and that is a lie
the lie is
"I am fine"

I have felt you for years
since the tender age of seven
before the onslaught of puberty
you nestled up under my ribs
closer and closer to my heart
you snaked your fat little fingers
up and into and out and around
the tender caricature of life
and when I was cut
it is you that seeped out
but no please don't think that
I was trying to get rid of you
I wanted to be closer to you
to hold you in my arms
for I was the only one that could
heed and hear your childish cries
for years I could feel you
curling around my brain stem
seeping into my addled brain
you were the cough medicine that
soothed not only my throat but
also the depths of my being
and I couldn't wait to meet you
I died so that you could live
this is not something to be sad
or to place blame about
because I saw you and the way
that life surged through you
how your toes curled and your fingers
closed around the edges of new life
I saw how you fought
to keep your eyes open
and I am sorry if I scared you
I just wanted to say goodbye to
my dear family and friends
but they couldn't hear me
and you felt that pain as well
but ****** Priestly I gave you
a second chance at life
so live it to the fullest
I will be watching over you
you're gonna do great kiddo
Love, Sarla

May as well just
push me
down the stairs
and end my suffering

i have said goodbye
more times than i can count
to grandparents
aunts and uncles
a good friend that i thought i would never be older than

but saying goodbye to myself
my old self
my girl self
is something that i still grieve from time to time

and it is such a disconnect that comes with this
because there was no body
nothing to mourn

no coffin
though i prefer to be cremated
i would like to grow into a tree
or be crushed down into a record
that only plays one song
over and over again

but nobody sent flowers
or so many casseroles that i had to
ask them to stop because i was
seeing tuna in my dreams
and the dying flowers were making me even sadder
*******

but no
because there was no body
though there almost was
nothing happened
just my falling asleep
and waking up

as if the past nine years had never happened
from seven to sixteen
knowing that something was different in me
and how it almost very nearly killed me
hell i still have the scars
and my insides are probably at least
a bit ****** from those **** pills

but i still do not know
how to say goodbye to who i was
who i was labeled because
i was a baby born with a ******
and of course that automatically equals female
doesn’t it?

but there is still such a disconnect
between the old name and who i am now

because even though i can get rid of
my *******
my ******
and Testosterone will put hair on my face
and give me a happy trail
and my voice will deepen
and i will go through a second puberty
where i want to **** everything

there are people that still see me
as a girl
a she
a lesbian
butch
tomboy
****

but all they really see are my *******
and what they assume is in my pants
and that is not who i am
that is not who i ever was
and ****** why can’t they just see
that this saying farewell
to my old self
does not mean i stop being
who i am

because i am so much more
than my *******
and my ******
and my ability to nurture a human life
inside my own body

i am so much more than my body
and my old selves do not determine who i am
today because today i am alive
and i am so much more than my body

i am so much more
than how you see me
i am so much more