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

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

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 will not
for I too
look forward to
an eternal sleep

Even
when
I
don't
want
to be
found

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

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?

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

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

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

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

Don’t you worry

your pretty little head,

my love

Safe is my middle name

On every day that

doesn’t end

in

Y

i 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

----
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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

heartache, grief, longing,
that ache of want, of wanting
mostly empty flask in hand,
too much of one thing and
not quite enough of another

cast in shadows against the
brilliance of the setting sun,
this wild thing in the shape
of a man goes out into the
vast desert to remember his
own name, again

there’s a choke-chain, and
perhaps worse, a tender hand,
still trying to puzzle out
which he deserves more

tattered long coat like the
wings of a black bird flapping
behind, voice stolen by the
howling wind, the snarling of
beasts wilder yet than him

finishes off the last drops
in the flask with coffee from
a dented tin mug, wonders how
far he must go, to find that
which he yearns for

still trying to puzzle that one
out, too, but feels like it may
be somewhere beyond the
horizon line, like taking a step
forward and tipping into
something that hurts just
a little bit less

wonders, still, if he’d even know
how to deal with that, now,
wonders if he’s allowed to want
something else than cold desert
nights and that black boneyard dog,
nipping at his heels

wonders if there’s a metaphor,
within the choke-chain and
the gentle hand

and maybe his name is where
it’s always been, tucked behind
breastbone, nestled in sinew,
in that feeling of walking up
creaky porch steps, just knowing
that light will have been left on

and maybe he’s not doomed by
the narrative, hell, maybe he’s not
doomed at all

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

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.

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

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

Fill a bathtub

with my sorrow

so sweet

so cold

so sharp

so

I can drown

myself in it

Now

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

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

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

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

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

you learn from icarus,
this time, and instead of
flying too close to the sun,
you simply pluck it from
the sky like a ripened peach

eaten in one bite,
you laugh through the
blood running down your
chin like sticky nectar

and when what remains
of those great wax wings has
been sufficiently cauterized,
almost matching the scars
stretching across your chest,
you decide it’s time
to go home

there’s no porchlight left
on for you this time, and
the bed is unmade just like
you left it

but you’ll turn the lights on
as you go, moving through
the house like a ghost,
finally the one
doing the haunting

and you’ll fall asleep
alone, and wake up
much the same way,
but that’s okay

alone but never lonely,
you tell yourself,
and even if it’s through
clenched teeth sometimes,
it’s the truth

so you say your own name,
feel it on the tongue like you
imagine a lover would,
and let that sun in your belly
keep you warm on the coldest nights

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

and what if you
didn’t **** her,
but i did?

what if i slithered
up from the cracked
and barren ground and
made myself at home
behind the cage
of her ribs?

how did you feel
when i cut her hair
for that very first time,
and dyed it once,
and then again?

do you feel like
i am wearing the skin
of your girl?

do you keep yourself
up at night, asking
why your baby girl
grew into a ****,
and then into a man?

you didn’t share in that
same relief, a homecoming
after far too long away,
that i felt looking down
at a chest that was bandaged,
sure, but was finally flat,
did you?

how did you feel
when another man,
that was never going to be you,
taught me how to shave?

what did you feel,
when the longer i was
on testosterone, the
more i looked like you?

never was made to
be a daddy’s girl,
was i now?

but i wasn’t made
to be your boy, either

the image i have
taken great care to sculpt
myself in has never
once been yours

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

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”

it’s not that i hate
the girl i (maybe)
used to be

i just never wanted
to be her

and there were no
instructions for me to follow
on how to pretend
to be like the other girls

how to wear skirts,
dresses, long hair in braids,
how not to flinch when
called my mother’s daughter

and the way that the pretty girl
with the long brown hair
saving a seat on the bus for me
made me feel like my heart
was in my throat and beating
its way out of my chest
all at the same time?

how was i supposed to handle that?
wanting to hold this girls hand,
and being almost overwhelmed with
joy when she actually let me

and the first boy i kissed
told me i was a pretty girl,
and it made me want to puke

and when i was able
to fix all that with testosterone
and top surgery and not even
bleeding when i shaved for the first time,
can you blame me for wanting
to forget that i ever was her?

i just didn’t know how to
miss someone i never wanted to be,
how to grieve for this girl
that always felt so wrong
in her own skin

and while i still can’t
remember her as fondly
as i might one day be able to,
i love that girl

i love that girl,
holding a bouquet of bright yellow
scotch broom, with messy braids
and the holes in the knees
of her jeans

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?

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the only gift from
god that i ever accepted
have been my teeth

and i will take
this gift, stained with
years of coffee, crooked and
chipped, and i will
sink them into
your flesh

don’t you see, my love,
i am a rabid dog,
broken free of
its choke-chain

nothing is going to
hold me back

from chomping at this bit,
from swallowing matches until the
darkest parts of me finally burn out,
and from feeling the hot beads of your
red, red blood as they burst
across my tongue

and if i can’t make
a home within the curvature
of your lovely ribs, well,
then, maybe i’ll just
devour you instead,
my love

and this wild thing
within the scarred confines
of my chest, well, it
keens at the distance between
your hand and mine

and maybe it’s better
to let sleeping dogs lie,
just this once, but then again,
i’m just old enough to know better,
and foolish enough in love
to do it anyway

“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

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