----
#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 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.

how to thank you
all of you
but the specifics are
painful
and they feel like
trying to write on my skin
as a child
but the pen had no ink
so i just scraped the nib
back and forth
and called it good

so thank you
thank you all
you are the reason why
i stopped hurting myself
why i started eating again
why i am able to wear short sleeves
the smile on my face is even bigger than before
you taught me how to get up again
even when all i wanted to do
was lay down and give up

you taught me how to make the best
of a bad situation
how to believe in myself again
i love myself a little bit more than
i used to
i can cry freely now
and speak up when i need to be heard
but i can also sit and be quiet
when the time comes
and i wish my arms were long enough
to wrap you all up in my love
and if only i could hug away
your broken pieces
but ******
those are what make you you
and i find them beautiful
even if you may not

you taught me how to
open myself up again
break down the walls around my heart
i can see the light now
and it’s not just an oncoming train
and honestly
i thought i was doing fine
in my old and dark days
but then you all came around
and ruined it
and honestly
i could not thank you more

putting into words
why swimming in the summer
is a thing that does not exist
be it pool, lake, or river
is almost as difficult and painful
as seeing bare flesh in the mirror
with all the wrong parts
in all the wrong places
and the only thing that goes through
an already moving-too-fast brain
is *wrong wrong wrong

Even
when
I
don't
want
to be
found

I will not
for I too
look forward to
an eternal sleep

men like to romanticize the sea,
and with a mistress like that,
can you really blame me?

but the sea does not care
for my affections,
the pretty words that i spin
to describe her beauty

and this is something that
must not be forgotten,
that this great watery expanse
cares not for your boats
or beating red hearts

for she will drown you
just the same

and yet, once named
the search will not stop,
or the loss will haunt you

sometimes, lover,
the call of the sea
sounds like your name

and i have searched for you
as long as there has been
breath in my lungs

and with a love like that,
can you really blame me?

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

sore and sweaty in the
dishpit at work,
well-worn boots on my feet
that i’d had for years before
i even knew what the words
queer and trans meant

and the black jeans that
i’ve been wearing for two days
to go with the black box dye
staining my hair

laura jane grace sings to
me through the radio
speakers about being androgynous

and i think about my gender then,
feel the ridges stretch where *******
once sat when i reach just far enough
to grab more dishes stacked beside me

mostly, i think about how
my girlhood felt like the steel jaws
of a spring loaded trap,
and no matter how hard i tried,
i could never gnaw off my
own limb to get free

i think of the testosterone for
a little over five years,
and a double mastectomy,
and the $200 to change my
name and gender marker

i ran from my girlhood
as far and fast as i could,
into the arms of the man
i made myself to be

and then i think of you,
long hair and longer legs,
twirling around in that skirt
i gave you

your womanhood is a gift,
one that i am forever humbled
to witness you reveling in,
watching you embrace everything
that i felt held back by

for you, to be a woman
is not a steel trap,
nor a choke-chain
or something to run from

for you,
to be a woman is a
beautiful thing,
and how beautiful you are

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

In the morning, when she woke up, he was there.

Maybe not physically.

She couldn’t smell his after shave, the dried blood on his arms, the scent of shampoo still clinging to the back of his thin neck.

He always had such a beautiful neck.

Beautiful ears, too, though he didn’t like the gauges.

When she tried to gauge her own ears, he just laughed, and helped her clean up the mess.

He held ice cubes to her swollen ear lobes and whispered the lines from all her favorite movies into her ears, he even sang a few songs that both of them liked.

When she opened her eyes, the first thing that she did was go back to her animal instincts and sniff the air for the scents of breakfast.

A big breakfast that neither of them could ever really eat.

Which meant delicious left overs that still smelled fresh, even through the plastic wrap, and eating out on the back porch, pretending that they could taste the stars as they shot across the sky.

There was sausage, muffins, home made, of course, eggs with ketchup, and hash browns, cooked just right and a beautiful mocha color against the milky white of the plates.

Both of the plates had cracks in them, though she didn’t mind.

Raised lines where he glued them back together.

Like he did with his arms in the quiet of every early morning.

They were both broken things.

The duct tape that held each others wounds closed.

Fraying at the edges, a faint burnt smell wafting around them both, though only one of them smoked.

Even when he left for the day, there was always a good morning text message waiting for her when she awoke sometimes around noon.

She would smile, feeling the chapped skin of her lips with her tongue.

Remembering how his voice had sounded right before he left.

Rough with the thickness of sleep.

His morning voice was always so beautiful.

Everything about him was beautiful.

He was beautiful.

He smelled like dirt sometimes, the scent of nicotine still clinging to him.

And coffee.

Always coffee.

Coffee grounds, biscuits, cigarettes, burnt food, and love.

But the smell of love might have just been his cologne.

Though he always refused to tell her what it smelled like, she would hide her face in his shirt, right above his jutting collar bones, and pretend that she could see the smells making a checkerboard pattern across the faded fabric.

And then, one day, he was gone.

His clothes were still there.

The drawings on the wall, done in the middle of the night.

Bandages in the trash can in the corner of the room, behind the door so neither of them had to see it.

There was a box of cigarettes on the night stand, leaning against the bottom of the lamp like they had been waiting for her to wake up.

It wasn’t a good morning that they greeted her with, though.

What they greeted her with, was a goodbye.

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

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

one night, floating on a sea
of *** and ale
the captain looks up at the bard
from where he’s laying with his head
in the bards’ lap, nimble fingers in his hair
says, “i love you”

words fail the poet now
and nothing escapes but
a sound between a sob
and a laugh

but the captain seems to understand
just the same
and for this the bard is thankful
presses a chaste kiss to the corner
of the captains’ mouth

and the next day
hungover and gripped by
panic over a loss not yet happened
the bard constructs a balcony
around the entire top half
of his two story cabin

watching from warm, salty waters
the siren laughs, insists it’s a widow's walk
and the bard doesn’t give her the satisfaction
of an answer, both knowing she’s right

there is a walk-way around the lighthouse
but it’s not enough
it’s just……
not enough

the siren watches this all
wishes briefly for legs
in order to go to the bard
hold him in her arms

the captain is not there
to see this
how the bard works with
tears in his eyes
a deep cut appearing
on the palm of his hand
and a slash through one eyebrow

the bard cries over the hammer
and nails, the wooden boards
and wrought iron

he cries for the captain
loving him too much
to try and cage a thing so wild
that only the ocean can soothe

he cries for the sadness
in the sirens’ eyes
bright red hair fanning out around
her in the deep green waves

and when the captain
sails back into view
the widow’s walk is complete

and the bard waits
leaning against the railing
he made with his own two hands
bandage on palm and face
and he cries again
but this time out of relief

----
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

my fiery-haired siren
this lady of the ocean and the waves
she says over a static-y cell connection
that i feed her heart,
that i am a garden

and suddenly,
the darkest parts of me
are bursting with sunshine
colored in shades of gold
for what feels like the same time

she tells me
that this garden blooming
isn’t just flowers,
it’s bees and green grasses
and the running horses

and i want to tell her
that i will always run to her
like the circle of her arms around
me is always calling me home

and i want to gift her
sweet wines and cheese,
and all the words i have
to offer, because she deserves them

and it’s not her siren call
that led me here,
but one heart recognizing another
as a place to sit and rest for a while,
to plant more flowers and watch
the wild horses run

i became the only boy
that i wanted to take
my shirt off for
step out of my pants
without falling over
and pull my socks off
one by one

i don’t really know
how this whole thing works
but it seems like dinner
would happen first
maybe i’d bring flowers
say how handsome i look outloud
and mean it

if i still had to wear a bra
i would buy a nice one first
splurge on something more
substantial than a sports bra
maybe something with
an underwire and little ribbons
show that part of me some love

and i would be slow about it
run my hands over this body
that dysphoria has always kept
me from exploring
with my own flesh against flesh

take the time to learn
all the curves and edges
of this vessel that has never
really felt like home
always too tight around
certain parts and too loose
in others

but that wouldn’t matter
because i would be a gentleman
and do this with the lights on
pull my shirt off
in a way that wasn’t rushed
and begging to be put back on
right after it would hit the floor
at my feet

and my knees wouldn’t shake
mapping out the parts of myself
i always wanted to cut off
and my breath wouldn’t falter
but go out easier than it had
in years

because i am the only boy
i ever wanted to take
my shirt off for
and i deserve to feel beautiful
and handsome
and fragile in some parts
because i am still here

******
i am still here

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

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.

you made me feel
like i was hard to love
and that’s something i
can’t find it in me
to forgive you for

after all, what good
am i to you
if there’s no ***?

seems like the answer
to that is a naive and
generous $400 and that
hoodie you stole from me

i told myself that if you
were happy, that was
enough for me,
for 5 ******* months

and what do i have to
show for it?

a last dinner together
that you were 40 minutes
late for, that i ate alone,
which is ironically the best
meal i’d ever had with you

and i think of you
years from now
doing to another partner
what you did to me

and in the midst of this
anger and hurt, i pity you

because, dearheart
when it comes to lasting love,
selflessness, reciprocity,
and symbiosis

your cup doesn’t
runneth over

it just runs out

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

if i could
i would write myself a father
who was not too tall
just enough so i could fit my
head under his chin

and he would always have
a smile for me
even after a long day at work
and the floor is still wet
from where i mopped

he would hang drawings
and report cards on the fridge
and tell me he was proud of me
even when i hadn’t done anything
that day except remind
myself it’s okay to just breathe

he would be an example
of a father that i could write about
and make it sound realistic
because nothing would
be made up and what
i imagined a father should
be and do

i would write him so
he would want to be my father
and he wouldn’t hate my
mother or me

he would be kind
and never yell at me
or hit or throws things
and he would just be there

this father
i would write him so he
would have found a way to
go to my high school graduation
and tell the people sitting next
to him that i was his son
with a smile on his face

but even as a writer
i’m not that good
of a liar

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

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 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

there is blood in my mouth
i know it is my blood
could be from
tooth cheek nail
throat raw from crying

my hands are shaking
a catalogue of sensations
that are making
my knees weak

and i know you’re
talking to me
can see your mouth moving
think i hear my name
but can’t be sure

there is blood rushing
in my ears
through the frantic beating
of my heart

and i just want it
to slow down
keep from stumbling
over itself when
i think of you

and you’re still talking
i think it’s to ask
if i’m okay
and i want to ask back

what do you want
me to say?
what do you want
to hear from me?

because it hurts
it hurts
it hurts
it hurts

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.

Don’t you worry

your pretty little head,

my love

Safe is my middle name

On every day that

doesn’t end

in

Y

a bard falls in love
and then lies to himself
about it for what feels
like a very long time

easy enough to say
that flashes of long blond hair
and blue eyes could just be
a trick of the light

surely this kickdrum in
his untrimmed chest
is the same as a pounding
headache from trying
to drown out this aching
with a different kind of amber

but when the bottle is dry
all that’s left is a steadfast
kind of certainty
that the only lie here is
his own fears

and the heart wants what it wants
compass he’s not quite sure
how to read

pointing in only one direction
leading him around the bend
and through the nights
to your front stoop

knocking with steady hands
and hoping you’ll open
the door

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

Fill a bathtub

with my sorrow

so sweet

so cold

so sharp

so

I can drown

myself in it

Now

When she told me

that she loved me

that she was in love with me

I hate myself so ******* much

that I almost asked why?

instead of saying

“you too”

“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

your name leaves a bitter
taste in my mouth
this has happened before
but never with such
a sense of
finality

i remember when we
first met and i was
a closet lesbian and you
were the new girl with the
colorful skirts and long
brown hair that i wanted
to bury my face in

and you were my
first kiss
my first girlfriend
the first
and only
person i ever fell
in love with

you were also the
first person to break my heart
and break it again
and again
and again over the course
of the next ten years

but i was young and in love
and so naive
believing that we
deserved a happy ending
that i would marry you
that you would want
to marry me

i have been in love
with you for ten years
i loved you as a girl
as a lesbian
and then as a queer man
and i thought
i hoped
you loved me back

but i’ve fallen out of
love with you so fast
it stole my breath
like a punch in the gut
laying down on cold cement
until my breath stops
coming in shallow
painful gasps

i feel used up
like you took all i had
and gave nothing back
we were never meant
to be symbiotic
were we?

well here i am
saying goodbye to you
for what will be the last time
because i just can’t do this anymore
all this back and forth
are you or aren’t you?
are we or aren’t we?
is making my head spin

and i hope you are
able to claw your way out
of this rut before it becomes
your grave

but i am untethering myself
from the mast
of your sinking ship
and i am not
looking back

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.

I’ve been in two
different wards
I slip casually into conversations
like this is an
every day thing
like it’s not life
ending
starting
shattering
stopping
beginning
again and again

I pretend that I
didn’t die the night
I took 40 Trazadone
and fell heavily asleep with
my heart in my throat

But my last thought
was how dare I take my life
when she barely got to
live through hers
and I’m glad that I
woke up

Still I’m sorry that
she didn’t and I’m
still afraid of large bodies
of water and hell
I don’t like being older than her

I’m glad that I woke up
but sorry that she didn’t

the pecans i buy
are not for me,
can’t justify a price tag
like that on myself

but when i see them
on the grocery store shelves
where the star bucks baristas
know me by name
all i think about is you

pecan sandies, mostly
but it goes good with pumpkin, too
and i know you’d agree

and i think about all these
things i have baked for you,
like trying to fill that hollow place
in both of us with sustenance
will make that darkness
a little less oppressive

who’s to say it won’t?

and there must be something holy
in the flour dusted on my black shirt,
hot oven in an even hotter kitchen
when you asked me so sweetly
for something i had never made before
and how am i supposed to say no

how could i?

and you weren’t mine to love,
much less fall in love with

but, just the same,
that’s not something i can bring
myself to regret

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

crash into me
be like waves against my sandy shore
bite my lip when we kiss
******* blood if you want
how your name sings through
every one of my veins
let it explode across your tongue
and your teeth will ache
with my name

keep your eyes open
look into mine
and see yourself reflected back
with all the love i
have for you

we’ll make each other feel alive
and other romantic cliches
like making your favorite breakfast
darning your socks
with your head in my lap
a hand in your soft hair
and a smile playing across
your slightly chapped lips

i might bend down to kiss you
pull you close
rub your back
just hold you there
a snapshot of
domestic bliss

let me be a hopeless
romantic a little bit longer
always too quick to love

lingering when you walk away
and maybe you’ll turn around
give me a little wave

and maybe you won’t
and maybe
it’ll be better
that way

a bard believes in love
with all that he is
and all that he has

holds it in
his two trembling hands
regards warily sometimes
as judge, jury, garroter

making a home on
this island in the middle
of a vast ocean was
an act fueled by love

and maybe there’s a story
to be written here
about the lines in a
sea captain’s handsome face
carved there by roaring
wind and raucous laughter

maybe there’s a story
in the way a siren’s flame-red
hair fans out around her lithe form
where she stretches to gift
the bard pearls and a promise
of never being alone again

and maybe there’s a story
in the way a kitchen witch
welcomes the bard into her home
and a seat at her grand table
holds him steady against
the rocking of a weather
beaten pirate ship

there’s a story in these people
the bard has willingly tied himself to
how he immortalizes them in love
and the written word

keeping the lighthouse
like a beacon and a promise
of a love not like a choke-chain
but a fistful of flowers freely given
again and again and again

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’re ahead of me in line
ordering food
a drink with too much sugar
maybe tickets to a movie
that you’re seeing alone

and i want to offer
to eat with you
sit next to you
you can rest your head
on my shoulder

and i’ll hold your hand
on top of the table
because our love
is nothing to be
ashamed of

i don’t know your name
but the way you put
flowers behind your ear
makes me want to
come home to you
year after year

and you’re sitting in
front of me on the max
you don’t notice me
almost falling asleep
against the headache inducing
rattle of the glass window
but the way you so carefully
spread tomato sauce onto
a lunchables pizza
makes my mouth water
makes me wish someone would
touch me like that

and i don’t know your name
but that doesn’t matter
because i’ll learn it when the
time is right and
buy you warm socks for winter
make you pancakes on your birthday
maybe even learn how to
make coffee that isn’t
an insult to the bean itself

and i don’t know your name
but i know you’re the type
of person
that i could fall
in love with

(if i only had the courage
to say hello)

it is raining,
when i leave you,
and when you hug me,
bathed in the warm glow
of yellowed bulbs in
your kitchen, i never
want to go

the scent of the
blanket i laid under
clings to my flannel, and
makes me think of you

if i press my nose
to the sleeve, i can
almost convince myself
you’re in the next room

but it’s just me here,
only the pattering rain
for company, still writing
hopeless hopeful hopesick
poetry about a man
i am not in love with anymore

my heart stills knows you, though
looks forward to every time that
we meet again, and you’ll take
me in your arms and remind
me again that i exist

i am as real to you
as the cheap beer slowly warming
in my hand, or the cake i baked
because you asked me to so sweetly,
or that smile of yours that always
feels like it’s just for me

i see you,
and i know that
you see me, too

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

my word is my gospel
a body made up of snatches
of conversations
kind words from chapped lips
various pen inks
staining the skin of my hands
and blunted fingertips

believing so fiercely in a love
that i can only hope believes
in me too

and i think a lot about empty spaces
so many voids to fill
like how your hand would fit
in mine
and we could laugh about my sweaty palms

like how a girl
i loved held my hand that first time
and said she wasn’t afraid
she wouldn’t be ashamed
walking by people in a crowded mall
and flipping through baby name books
like we deserved a future together

i think about your cold feet
wondering if there are holes
in socks that you keep forgetting
to sew and wishing there
were a way to close
those gaps of darkness
nestled between your ribs

we could plant flowers there
ya know
plants i promise not to ****
painting a black thumb green
if only to see you smile

and i think about kissing you
i think about it a lot
but i don’t have that kind of courage
still trying to believe in love
like i did as a child

writing that darkness into
something tender and soft
smoothing out those jagged edges
like carding fingers through your
messy hair

filling those gaps with
sunshine and smiles
and your name on my lips
a new favorite taste

giving myself a happy ending
and that’s okay

****** any how
i’m a love poet
a hopeless romantic
heart on my sleeve
gladly rolling your name around
in my mouth like a marble
my teeth ache
from wanting you

and that’s okay
i’ll rub the pain
out of my jaw and
get back on my feet

and there are so many ways
for me to say
i love you
it’s rolling down my arms
black and blue ink
let me water your notebook
paper garden with all these
words of mine

i’ll love you through
everything and will
your jagged edges back together
because i’ve got so much
to give

let me forget how to
hate myself so much
as i hold you in my arms
we can sit and watch
the world for a little while

intertwine your fingers with mine
let’s anchor each other
at least for tonight
and you’ll believe me
when i tell you that
you are deserving of so much love

of everything you want
in this world

you hurt me
you selfish
*******
*******

i was just a kid
a young boy wondering
where his father was

telling the other kids in
my kindergarten
first
second
and third grade classes
that i didn’t have a father

and that never felt like a lie
seeing as you never had
the time for parenting
media and fiction told me
what a father should be

and you never did live
up to that
the image i had in my head
of what it meant
for a father to be loving

and
and
and
i am drunk

i am drunk
and angry
and hurting

but never enough to
pick up the phone
not that you would ever call
and not that i would ever answer

and i am still licking
the wounds that an absent
childhood left behind
wondering when this
void will close
waiting for a scab to form
that is no longer so **** flimsy

and my tattoo artist tells me
that his father was like mine
but also worse
and when his father died
everything he felt for him
died, too

and
and
and
i wonder if that will
happen to me, too

will all the memories
the hurt outweighing the good
finally burn out?
will i stop longing for
something i never had?

will the fact that
you never wanted me
as a daughter
or as a son
stop aching
so **** much?

will you have to die
for me to no
longer
be afraid?

the grief that has grown roots
in my stomach winds its way
up behind my ribs with the
intention to bruise,
and lodges in my throat

fifteen years later,
and i still can’t say your
name out loud

so i cry into shaking hands,
instead, one over my face,
the other balled into a fist
that i bite down on

under the light of a cold
moon that is closer than you
are to me, i sob out all
the breath in my lungs

and it’s been so long,
my old friend,
that i can’t remember what i
said the last time i saw you

but i wish i had said more,
sat beside you a little longer,
lingered under your smile
like it was the sun after
so long in the rain

i wish you could see
what i’ve made of myself,
the tattoo on my right shoulder
i gripped so hard while tears
soaked into my pillowcase

and when you’re still gone
in the morning, gone where i
still can’t follow to the clearing at
the end of the path

i’ll brush myself off and
continue on,
until we meet again,
my old friend

my lady of the ocean
and the waves, you
soothe this wild thing
snapping at my ribs

clawing at the walls
that i so carefully built,
the sound of your voice
sends all those stones
cascading down around me

and you tell me i am good,
you tell me i am kind,
that you are proud of me,
and that wild thing throws
back its head and keens

‘i see you,’ you say,
and when you call me by
a name that was never really mine,
i do not flinch
for the first time

this wild thing and i,
we will bring you all of my
sharp and jagged edges,
the parts that i fear are unfixable,
and you love me until
i am whole again

oh, my lady of the ocean
and the waves,
i see you, too
i see you, too

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