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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

well
in this instance
you need to step
DOWN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

this isn’t my first rodeo
and by that i mean this
isn’t my first poetry slam
but my hands still shake
and sweat breaks out on my
upper lip and slides
down my spine
like cold fingers

the judge
the white
cisgender
heterosexual
old man judge
looks at me like
he’s trying to figure out
what i am and i want to
tell him that he’s not
the first person to ****
their head to the side at me

and my shoulders hurt
under the tight fabric
of my black chest binder
and i wonder if it
is showing through the
fabric of my white and pink
striped button up

i run a hand through my hair
bright and blond
and in your face
and wonder why all the poems
i read and write
fall under a category
that is not strictly
“family friendly”

maybe it’s because i
am a deeply angry person
from living in fear
since i was seven years old

or it’s because i
decided i was going to
be as loud as i could be
about being transgender
and queer
and mentally ill
because being quiet
felt like giving up

but this judge does not care
about how it felt to
kiss a girl for the first time
to fall in love with a girl
and then to fall in love with
that person again
outside the constrictions of gender

this judge does not care
because he cannot understand
and he does not want to
and this is a poetry slam that
i am not going to win
because the cards of the majority
are stacked against me

but i don’t care about
not winning
because my voice doesn’t shake
when i out myself to a roomful
of people in a town that
i am afraid to use the men's room in

and in that moment
i am not afraid
my voice is strong and loud
and these people are listening
and that judge
can’t hold a candle to the
bright light that burns within me

and just as i know this
he knows it too

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don’t want to be here.

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

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

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

I don’t want to be here.

lonely darkness
strange flower
whisper broken
dreams

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

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

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

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

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

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

lightning
thunder
shiver & collapse
murmur, shudder
or howl
through it

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

i cannot unwind the
rage from my queerness,
just as i cannot escape the
chokehold that fear has on
my transness

this body of mine is holy
in that i have built myself
from the ground up

but this body of mine is
also so hated because i refused
to become a statistic

i am not going to do people
that want me dead the favor
of snuffing out my own light
before my time

in one form or another, those
like me have always existed,
and will continue to do so

through every stubbled cheek caressed,
every knuckle bloodied,
every testosterone injection,
and every time i recognized that man
in the mirror as who i was always
really meant to be

i will not be erased,
my brothers
and sisters
and siblings
will not be erased

i have eaten too many matches for
this fire in me to ever burn out

while it may be true
that the way to a man’s
heart is through his stomach,
i chose to crack open my
ribcage for you

and your longing was just
as hungry as mine,
two beasts that devour
in the same way

what a feast
my heart would make for you,
my love

all you have to do is ask
and i will fill this table to creaking
with all the foods you enjoy,
and drink to chase back the light

and maybe i’ll leave in the morning,
or you’ll beat me to that particular punchline,
but when we were
when we are
together

i forget the rest

i am awoken by
the sounds of rain
thundering down onto
the patio outside the window
of what used to be my room

dragging myself from the
warmth of bed, i go
through the motions of
pulling on clean clothes
and brewing coffee

pausing for a sip,
i take a peek around
around the corner of my
laptop, and find that the
pond has flooded

water laps further up the
stone steps like a
hungry ocean, and rain
continues to fall

waiting for the flood,
like it will smooth out
all my jagged edges,
i imagine myself as
a fish

maybe a trout, caught
by a starving man,
held aloft in strong hands
as the hook is pulled
from my mouth

and when that knife
slips down the seam
of my tender belly, i’ll
welcome the gutting, because
it’s him wielding the blade

take from me what
is of use, and discard
the rest, like plucking
thin bones from between your
teeth, and i wonder if you’ll
think of me then

when the reaching and
pulling, and dragging arms
of the ocean i willingly walk
into, take me into the mouth
of that verdant beast

and the house floods,
sends coffee mugs and
empty bottles tumbling,
smashed on the rocks
of this longing

and when the rain
lessens just enough for
sunlight to arc out across
the expanse of that endless
sea that stretches from one
end of the horizon to the other

and you’re out there
on your paper sailboat,
you’ll realize that we’re
under the same blazing sun
once again, and smile like
you do, just for me

yearning like a choke chain,
like a feral animal
chewed off its own back paw
caught in the jaws of a
steel trap

and what you did to me
didn’t hurt any more than
what i did to myself

though,
what did you do,
besides tell the truth,
that you couldn’t love me back?

how could i resent
you for that,
my love?

because i did what
i do best as a hopeful
romantic and self-proclaimed bard

i fell in love
let this yearning make me
into a love-sick fool

only ever a fool for you,
which is a nicer way of saying
i broke my own heart
before you ever even
got the chance to try

and maybe there’s
a certain kindness in that.
holding all this yearning at bay

trying to find a good metaphor
to say i still love you
and not have it sound desperate and sorry
at the same time

stranger with my face,
where have you been?
where have you gone?

can’t find the answers
watching myself shave
in the ***** mirror,
where blood that we both
once shared drips into
the sink from a cut
on my chin

do you remember when
you wanted to prove
that i wasn’t your son,
until you had to
pay for it?

because i do,
and laugh every time
i tell that story
like it doesn’t still hurt

as if i don’t look
exactly like you;

and a door closes,
but a window doesn’t open

after all, there are no exits
in this hallway constructed
from grief that slowly
curdles into hate

and i could drink about this,
but what’s the point?
this is a hurt that knows
how to swim

but i’d like to toast anyway,
so here’s three cheers
to absent fathers,
the boy he never wanted to see,
and the man he never gets to know

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i had top surgery
on Monday the 28th
and i hardly remember any
of it

that morning my grandmother
woke me up
said she loved me
my grandfather asked if he could
pray for me

and the night before we had
toasted to a speedy recovery
with white russians
which I still think smell
like sharpie markers
but that might be just me

and i didn’t call my father
he didn’t know the date
the day and hour
when i would go under the knife
for the first and only time

it’s been a few weeks since
i last shaved
and hairs are finally starting to
appear under my bottom lip
and this time i will not
panic because of how much
i resemble him

because my granny in texas
said i was handsome like him
and that almost made me cry
but also lessened the sting
of his absence

and a hole that feels less gaping
having nothing to do with the
breast tissue that was cut out of me
the steri-strips and incisions on my sides
to accommodate the drains
like they’re taking out more than blood
and viscous fluid

the hurt from him
grows less as my chest
my male chest
heals more each day

and i don’t think of how
he maybe won’t recognize me
one day and that’s okay
maybe for the best

because i am so much more
than the daughter
and then the son
he did not want
nor know how to love

i am growing into my
own man that i was always
meant to be

and it feels so good
making a place in this
body that finally feels like home

my boots are up on the
dashboard of your car
dried mud on the soles
stuck in the treads
but i don’t think you mind

because we’re going to
the coast and you’re singing
along with the songs on the
radio like we do this
all the time

and your voice is scratchy
in a way that makes my teeth hurt
but i realize it’s not a metaphor
i’ve just been clenching my jaw

a coil of nerves
tightening around the cold and
greasy food that we
decided to call breakfast

this is not a foreign feeling
just one i have grown unaccustomed
to having
this guilt over who i love

‘cause i’m way too good
at trapping myself in unrequited pining
unable to figure out if you
care enough not to point it out
or if you’re really just
that oblivious

but none of that matters now
because all i want to do
is run my hands
that may or may not be shaking
through the curls in your hair

and you might even let me
this time

Can’t be a model
cuz of the roll of love around my middle
Can’t be an arm model
cuz of the **** scars
Can’t be a stripper
cuz I’m too insecure
(and lack the strength)
(and I look better in lots of layers)
My hands are too broken and crooked to ever be beautiful
nobody wants a hand model with chewed off nails and ragged cuticles
And that **** little scar on my left hand

But then I dug
through all the can’ts and found my guilt and my sorrow and the dull ache that she left behind

And I realized that
I may not be good at
a lot of things
but I can sure as hell write

So I coughed up
all the blood that she left clotted in my throat and spit it on to a blank page
used all that anger and guilt
to make something beautiful

Because my friend
we can’t
you can’t
I can’t
save everyone from this war that is life

But she is more than
just a causality
she is so much more
******

And my pretty words
laced with “I’m sorry’s”
and “I miss you’s”
really don’t do her justice

But I have learned
that writing is something I’m good at
even if my self loathing seeps through the cracks in the foundation sometimes

So I will write
fill pages with the veins from the gaping hole in my chest that her absence occupies and wonder if she’d be proud of me even now with how broken I am

I wish I had something else to offer
but I am only a poet
with notebooks to fill with
goodbyes that I never got to say

My god
I miss you

i once again find myself
to be lovelorn
lovesick,
and foolishly so,
when it comes to you

with a heart too prone
to pining for its own good,
i dream of donning a silk gown
and sharing a dance with you

let me long,
and ache,
and wish,
just a little longer

maybe you could have
loved me once,
in the way that i desired,
but that’s not in the cards
i find myself holding this time

and there’s no tricks
up my sleeve, no clever
metaphors like crashing my
ship upon the rocks of this
longing again and again

just watching the dappled
light from rising sun casting
its warming rays across the back
of a chair with two hats resting
on either side

and maybe that’s enough,
maybe it has to be

i tell myself
i don’t care that
it’s been two years
since the last time
i saw my father

i tell myself
i don’t care that
he wasn’t even really
in my life until i was 7
and before that i just told
people i didn’t have
a father

i tell myself
i don’t care that
my father hates me

but i’m crying like
my dog just died
so it’s not very convincing

and i can pinpoint when
he stopped loving me
later on in my life
than i've thought for years

but can you really blame me
when he’s not around to ask?

and it’s this book he gave me
a memoir
the summer before i started
my freshman year of high school
where he called me his darling
and signed it “love, pops”

i read that book
last week
cried my way through
almost the whole thing
holding the bent pages and
cracked spine like i wanted
him to hold my hand again

but i did something
when i was growing up
to make him stop loving me
and for years i thought that
if i just went deep enough
i could dig it out
but that thing goes
deeper than my bone marrow

and he’s not around to ask
and i’m crying like an idiot
over this man that
probably won’t even know what
i look like
in 5 years or 10

and i have so many things
to ask him
to say to him
like why he didn’t want to be my father
why he wasn’t proud of me
why he doesn’t love my anymore

how i feel like it’s all my fault
and he probably agrees with me
and that might have made me
resent him
maybe even hate him
a year or two ago
but tonight
it just makes me cry
harder

this ship and i
have both got ribs,
crafted from wood and bone,
both housing something greater
than the sum of our parts

but even wood,
even bone,
can splinter and break

and, my heart,
my love,
there is no sign of land

perhaps there has not been
for quite some time,
but like the lovesick fool
that i am, the majesty of

the open ocean and the bright
skies above captured my attention
more than that lonely little spit
of shore growing ever smaller
in the distance ever could

and maybe the answer that
i seek slumbers at the bottom
of the ocean, far from the sun
and the salty tears
of silly bards

for i never was much of
a sailor, much preferring the
company of you and a bottle
of spiced *** to the creaking
ship boards under my boots

and there is no sign of land,
and i hope i never get sober,
and maybe i’ll get to see
your lovely crooked teeth one
more time as you smile so wide
and hold me close

and wouldn’t that be nice,
oh captain of mine?

the sea chases a sailor
from one port to the next,
licking at the well-worn tread
of his cracked leather boots,
soaks the cuffs of tattered breaches,
pulls at thread-bare long-coat sleeves

maybe the ocean reminds him of you,
and how even the deepest bottles
of *** must eventually come to an end,
licking dry lips to find the
last vestiges of salt

or the taste of you
still on his tongue,
wild and carefree, an unbroken thing

like this heart that still beats
within his chest,
undeterred by the passage of time

maybe this is a waiting game
that you both know well,
waiting for your voice to ring out
over the swells to warn this weary sailor
of the rocks just up ahead

(besides, a ship is just a ship
a sailor is just a man wed to the open ocean
a lighthouse is just another lonely port)

a welcome and a warning
that drives the two of you further away,
asking himself if it’s worth it
to crash upon the jagged edges
of your cliffs again

and already knowing the answer,
as he stops and turns
to meet the waves

i say to god that he
is just another absent father
and he tells me to
eat my vegetables

i want to ask where he was,
my father?
a god that i
still don’t know if i fully
believe in?

but because i am
a good son,
i will set the table,
carefully lay out the silverware

ladle hot soup into clean
bowls and bite the inside
of my cheek until it bleeds
when my father says that
i purposely gave him less meat

and i want to ask him,
is this all i am to you?
another mouth to feed,
somebody to blame for your
mistakes and the alcohol on your
breath as you scream at me?

where have you gone,
father of mine,
this mythical man that
walks among the clouds,
and what should i pray for?

a father that loves me,
that wants to parent me,
when does this begging to be
seen as his son,
as anything,
taper off into anger?

because i am down on
my knees here,
but still there is no answer,
and i don’t expect there to be

i tuck the knife
that was in my back
into my front pocket

this thing inside my
chest, it keens when
i wipe the blood off
on a tattered sleeve

and i’ve just been
cold for so ******* long,
i don’t know how to
feel any other way

and what do you
mean, when you say that
you won’t hurt me
this time?

the knife trembles in
my grip, and i won’t
believe you,
i just can’t

i won’t beg to
be touched with gentle
and caring hands,
won’t ask nicely,
won’t ask at all

this thing, seeking a
safe harbor nestled between
my ribs, bares crooked teeth
and snaps at anything,
anyone, that gets too close

and so i take
solace in what i know,
tell myself that’s enough until
i believe it

and i do not
yearn, and i do
not ache, and i
do not wish

and there’s a knife
in my hand, and blood
on my shirt, and there
will be no rest

there will be no rest

it’s something like a love letter,
the bard thinks to himself,
draping a well-worn jacket
over the captain’s shoulders

you’ve returned to me again
followed that bright beam
from an island lighthouse
out of the ocean depths

and over the wooden floorboards
to this table,
laden with the kind of soft
cookies you like,
and just the right amount of ***

and certainly there must be
a kind of magic imbued
in the way the captain
glances at the bard
with a twinkle in his eye

that hints at the star
he used to be,
when he sailed towards
a much closer horizon

and watching the captain
wrapped in his coat for a change,
the bard remembers why
he fell in love with the captain
all over again

and when the captain
has sailed out upon that
vast and salty ocean once again,
the bard will press his face
into a jacket sleeve that

the smell of the captain
still lingers on,
and pretend that fabric
were his wind-worn skin instead

and think to himself, yes,
there is surely something like a love letter in this

you ever just get distracted
by how nice you look shirtless?
because this is a new thing to me
admiring what a skilled surgeon
was able to craft out of
so much extra
wasted
useless
skin

and i spent 9 years
clawing at the inside
and outside
of my body
trying to cut out
what made me feel so trapped
and wrong

i was not nice
to my body
this vessel that houses
the very essence of who
of what
i am

i did not know how
to love the peaks
and valleys of flesh that
i only wanted gone
soft in what felt like
all the wrong places

and i am still learning
to love this body
sculpted into a form
i know how to live with
to live in

pt.2
and i am apologizing
to all the parts of me
that bore the brunt of
this journey to
the man i was always
meant to be

this is a love letter
to my body
to the scars where my
******* used to be
that a dear friend
and then my mother
carefully bandaged for weeks
when i couldn’t bear to
look at them

this is for my
soft tummy
my thighs that jiggle
when i walk
for every part of me
that i once hated

this is for being able
to look at myself
in the mirror
and speak softly about
the softest parts of me

this is a love letter
to the little girl i never was
to the little boy i yearned to be
to the man i have become
and the body that carried me

this body that
sustained me
and this body that
refused to die

born to be a clown,
a lover,
a poet,
a bard

building myself up to
grow into a middle-aged
trans ***, like so many
before me who never got
the chance to

and i know who i am,
spent 18 years finding the
man that was always meant
to look back at me from the
smudged glass of the mirror

i paint my nails red to
match the blood that beads
along the line of my jaw
when shaving, hands and mind
distracted by how much i
look like someone else
sometimes

but i am not my father’s son,
and i never was my mother’s daughter

i am the burning streak of light against
the dark velvet of the sky, the echo
of a revolution before my bones knew
to long for those that came before

and i am going to grow up,
i am going to grow old,
not out of spite anymore,
but because it’s what i’ve fought for,
it’s what i’m owed

i wonder if building
a house inside of myself
wouldn’t be the worst thing,
the worst choice i’ve ever made

and i chose to love
you on purpose, ya know?
brought fresh pine and soft rugs
to fashion you a table and chairs

but what is an empty table,
if only a centerpiece to display
all the times i dashed my own
heart upon the rocks?

still, i can’t blame the soft
and rain-soaked dirt of your soul
for not being able to nourish
the flowers i so carefully planted

so i will take these wooden planks
and fashion myself a little cottage,
maybe with a wrap-around porch and
window boxes,
and wouldn’t that be nice?

because these hands of mine, lover
they know not the days old
stubble on your cheek, or tucking
bright yellow dandelions and buttercups
behind your ear

but they do know
how to build something from nothing
something from what once was
a ship, a lighthouse, a table

a sturdy front porch
that always has the light on

and the same
wild blood, well,
it thrums in our veins

a bard and a siren,
a poet and his muse,
your hand in mine,
and my hand in yours

take me out past
these paved highways
to those grassy fields
where the wild horses run

we’ll sit on the hood
of your parked car,
splitting a six pack
and sweet summer peaches

and i’ll fall in
love with you
all over again

because i don’t have
to beg for mercy,
or confess my sins,
or cage this wild thing
that lives in my chest

your hands are tender enough,
your words soft and kind,
to soothe that black boneyard dog
that paces over and over
what i’ve had to bury

and there in the sun,
i know you won’t ask
me to dig any of it up

so i’ll knock that
old dirt off my well-worn boots,
and with the sun at my back,
and you by my side,
i’ll plant flowers there instead

I. “i’ll let you know
when i get home,”
i say into the space between
us as the only man i’ve
ever truly loved embraces me
like i’m something, someone
to be cherished

i turn and wave one
last time before the trees block
the view of the little cabin,
then i take four buses back to
my empty apartment and
ache just that much more

II. we go out, or i come
over, and when you drive me
back home you wait until
i’m inside before driving away

even when i fumble with
my keys, your love is
still patient with me

III. “text me when you
get home,” i say,
and you do every time

even if you forget once
or twice, you apologize
twice as much, and i
love you all the
more for that

IV. i cry into the
sink full of dishes that
i’m washing my way through,
hands too soapy to wipe away
the tears

but i grab a threadbare dishtowel
to see what you’ve got to say,
when my phone goes off

V. and i’ll dry my hands,
and my tears,
to text you back:
‘i love you, too’

unsolicited and unwelcome
a man bigger and taller than
i am demands to know what it is
that i believe in

and when i tell him that
i believe in love
he tells me that i am wrong

and i tell him he is
making me uncomfortable
and finger the cap on the canister
of mace in my jacket pocket

i do not tell this man
that he doesn’t know what he is
talking about, nor do i
ask just who the hell he
thinks he is to tell me
that my belief is wrong

i believe in love
in the way my friend wears
the pajama pants i bought him
and makes me pancakes and coffee
for breakfast

i believe in love
in the way she hangs the art
i make for and send to her
in the houses of her home,
willing to bring a massive
canvas all the way to alaska

i believe in love
in the way they welcome me
into their heart and their home
and lets me make them dinner
and clean up after like
domesticity is what you make of it

i believe in love
in the way my sister
calls me her brother
for the very first time
and doesn’t laugh when it
makes me cry

and i believe in love
like one could or would
a god,
but my god is not cruel
my god is not distant

my god
is in the bus fair he makes sure
i have, and then offers if i don’t

my god
is tangible and believes in
me like i believe in it

my god
makes sure i’ve eaten and drank
makes sure i get home safely
and asks me to text them
because they’ll worry if i don’t

heart black as midnight
I fear I am alive
night will fill the forest
so give my death
an echo

i want to kiss you
do you know that, lover?
and not just when i’m drunk
though i’d be more likely
to ask then

and the pocket-sized
bottle of tequila i drank
isn’t the only thing
making my guts warm

but the way you look at me
laying down fully on your couch
because i think i’m funny
makes me realize that i
wouldn’t mind waking up to you
coming home to you

makes me realize that
maybe i’m in too deep
but i passed the shallows
months ago

floating on my back
and holding out my hand
maybe hoping that
our hands will touch
is that really too much to ask?
lover?

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
always 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

a bard falls in love,
writes ballads and poems
and plays those strings
until his fingers
******* bleed

out in the desert,
the horse spooks and throws
a cowboy down into
the hot searing sand,
leaves him gasping and staring
up at an empty and blue sky

on the high, unforgiving seas,
a pirate falls overboard,
sinks like he was always supposed
to return to the ocean

and i watch myself in two
different mirrors, in a bathroom
that is not mine, cutting the cord
around my neck and holding
these two rings in my hand

these hands of mine do not shake
this time, and i briefly consider
swallowing the rings,
cracking my teeth on the cold steel
like so many empty promises

instead, i pack them away,
and do not look at them,
like these other things i will
not look at

because, while i may be
a hopeful romantic,
and a lovesick ******* fool,
i refuse to let these torches
i carry for others burn
me any longer

i will rebuild these walls,
brick by brick,
and plant rose bushes with thorns
to keep away that which does
not serve me anymore

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

i love you
and that’s what matters
even if you will never love me back
in that way
i just want you to know that
among other things
i am exceptionally good
at unrequited

but that hardly matters now
because there is a lump in
my throat and almost all
of my daydreams look like you

like being held in your arms
wrapping mine around your neck
and saying
i love you
for the first time
so quick that neither of us
were sure it was real

and i think of the holes
in your socks a lot
wondering if you have anyone
to **** them for you
and i promise not to
make them too ugly
if you let me fix them

and i want you to believe me
when i say you’re my friend
the only person i’m comfortable
with texting when i’m ****** up
on ***** and the devil’s lettuce
and if  you think that’s romantic
or a little creepy
then that’s okay

because you are so deserving
of so many good things
and i want to give them to you
with my whole heart
and i hope that just maybe
you won’t leave me standing there
holding that faithful
***** in my hands
while it cries out for you

but if you do
then that’s okay
too

the bard wonders if there is
an ending to this story
that could classify it
in the genre of love

wants to ask the captain
but knows deep down that
he needs nothing more than
a ship upon the sea
good *** in a sturdy flask
and a body to hold on
the coldest of nights

and the bard can appreciate
the simplicity of those needs
but, he wants to ask the captain,
what about wants?

because, you see, the bard
he is full of wants
practically overflowing
with all this wanting

arguably more of a yearning
but that’s really just a matter
of semantics he’s choosing to ignore

and this is already a love story,
isn’t it?

even if the two characters don’t
kiss and live happily ever after

besides, the bard thinks,
there is not much material
in the monotony of being
constantly content

because, there are wants
and there are needs
like a poet and a bard needing a muse
and a captain wanting to be held
by something other than the sea

and that’s enough of an ending
at least as far as the bard
is concerned

i am looking for god
in places i saw him
fleeting and peripheral

hidden in the gaps of his teeth
when he smiles
and how her fingers slotted perfectly
in between my own

the knife in my shaking hand
has a white flag tied around the handle
indents of jagged teeth in my bottom lip
not knowing if the blood on my tongue
belongs to me

and that first time we held hands
my heart sprouted wings
tried to escape the cage
of my chest
searching for the light
that you exuded

i am looking for god
and he sat next to me
leaning up against a bedroom wall
long forgotten by now
with her head in my lap
fingers carding through long hair
i counted her freckles
and god said they were like
constellations trapped under the skin
and i think he may be right

i have briefly found god
not in houses of worship
but on the lips of others
kisses in bedrooms
school hallways
standing in the middle of
empty and darkened streets

the feeling they brought out in me
it felt so close to holy
i could have wept

and my grasp on the knife
is becoming less severe
ready to bury it in the ground
watch a forest grow out of it
that fear of a god that
felt more like another absentee father
than someone i could pray to

but i found him
when i looked into your eyes
and was met with an openness
i would have gladly drowned in

i found him
in your laugh
your warm embrace
your calloused hands
your lips against mine

i found god in
you you you

my sorrow is a monster
ten feet tall
all beady eyes and
teeth sharper than razor blades
nipping at my heels

i cannot run fast enough
to evade this black wave
that has only grown with me

nestled up against my ribcage
like vines crushing the life from
a once mighty tree
covered in all these hurts

but it wasn’t always this way
some monsters aren’t
just the way they are
some monsters are made

and this monster was nurtured
a catalogue of things i can’t fix
things i can’t change
things that were done to me

and there’s only so much
i can drink
only so many painkillers
i can swallow
before i feel nothing at all

my sorrow is not my friend
these claws only know how to
rend and tear
never knowing a touch that
was anything other than cold

this choke-chain i hold
in my shaking hands
hardly seems like enough to
contain such a beast

and i don’t want to be
like my parents
i don’t want to be
like you, lover boy
drowning my sorrow in
whatever i can reach

my sorrow will not
make me as monstrous
as this darkness so
often feels

1.1.  i used to hear and see
things that weren’t there
but that all stopped the second
and final
time my mother kicked me out

funny how the brain deals with
years upon years of repeated
traumas, huh?

2. i was 17 years old
a month or two shy of 18
the last time i was sexually assaulted

i play words with friends against
one of the women that assaulted me now
and hate her for what she did to me
and the people i told that
should have helped me
but only called me a liar and
forced me to forgive my attackers

3. on that night
i cut my left arm to ribbons
and bled all over my desk
trying to get that feeling of being *****
and used up off my skin

i still ask myself
if i had still been pretending to be a girl
would people have believed me
or would that ****** assault
have been something worse?

4. i only remember my father
drinking when he had me around
old crow kept on top of the fridge
on the rocks
and a splash of warm water

that man who is
the other half of my dna
loved his **** grog more than
he ever wanted
ever loved me

5. you wanna know how
i got these scars?
and i don’t mean the ones
that were done by my own
trembling hands

the ghost of a child
still wails within me
never stopped being afraid
of those that were supposed to
protect me

6. the shadow of a young man
thin wisps of smoke
like the cherry of a cigarette
held against an arm
claws at this darkness
that only grew with me

i know perfectly well
which parts of me are
too broken to try and repair
the pieces my brain won’t
let me remember

7. and maybe that’s for the best
not having the words to explain
what was done to me
again and again

but that doesn’t satisfy
the hurt and anger
this brewing hatred
towards parents that didn’t know
how to be
and never really should have been

8. you wanna know how
i got these scars?
ripped out every part of
my parents that coursed through
all that red blood and blue veins

made a promise to that
scared little boy
still nestled against my ribs
that i would never be the
kind of monster a childhood
i almost didn’t make
it out of alive
wanted me to be

i take myself out to dinner
to a place i know i like
because i made sure to
write the name down

i’ll be 5 minutes early
maybe bring flowers if
the right kind is in bloom
just to see myself smile

and i’ll wear my nicest boots
a button-up with the
least amount of paint
and blood on it

clean-shaven, i’ll pull
out my own chair
order my favorite ******
light beer and even
splurge on dessert

i’ll make sure i know
that i am wanted
that i am worthy

that i am loved
loved
loved

there is a darkness
harbored by my ribs
an ivory cage

and i am eating matches
like over-salted french fries
trying to burn
it off

but this isn’t
a movie
and this is not a bid to
die with my lover

my mattress is only
big enough for one
and there just aren’t enough
blankets to simulate the
warmth of another body
laying next to mine

scuffed boots leave streaks
of dirt on striped sheets
like i have somewhere to be
someone to go to
when i can’t sleep

but the sun rises
shines into bleary eyes
and if i squint
the shaft of light
arcing across my carpet
looks like it could be you

that darkness could also
arguably be in the shape of
you and i am still trying to
figure out if that place
is something i should be
ridding myself of
or holding close
with both hands

and these matches are
nowhere near as sweet
as your lips were
on that dark night

but i am shining
bright now
maybe enough for you
to see

and if you don’t
well
then that’s okay
too

i wrote this for you
did you know that?

i had been writing
for you since the first time
we met at ten years old
and i fell in love
with every part of you
and i wrote for you
until i fell out of love
like air rushing back into
my lungs after holding my breath
for years and years

i wrote this for you
not quite a poem
but little snippets here and there
keeping you up because
time zones and insomnia
calling you “my love”
and meaning it with all my being
in the way only a child can
and i am still asking myself why
it ended the way it did
when did you stop loving me?
why did you stop loving me?

i wrote this for you
probably the first time
i ever tried to rhyme in a poem
and it was terrible
but i meant every word
every time i said i love you
every letter you sent me
that i tacked to my wall
we are going to meet in person
and i am going to snot and cry
all over you ******

i wrote this for you
when you still loved me
still wanted me
what felt like more than you did
when i thought i was your daughter
and we would meet for lunch
and when you hugged me
you smelled like i did
when i was a child
and hadn’t seen you in months
that quickly became years
i felt safe in your arms
but i think i’m afraid of you now

i wrote this for you
and it was too romantic
for who you are
for who we are
as people and as a friends
and i told you i loved you
with my arms around your neck
because i thought i wouldn’t see
you again and i still wonder if
you heard me
but i’m not going to ask

i wrote this for you
with your hair bright as flames
eyes sparkling in the sun
you always smell like home
and i want to carry that with me
all the time because it makes
me feel safe
and loved

you make me feel
safe and loved

and i wrote this for you
with ink smeared on my
fingertips and my wrists
like the colors used to be when
i was a young boy
and some of it hurt
but more of it made me smile

stranger with my face,
where have you been?

i realize in therapy today
that i do not know my father

can’t remember the color of his eyes
or his address,
but i still know what he used to drink
when i was a small boy,
and surely that counts for something

old crow grog,
bottle pushed far back enough
on top of the fridge that i
couldn’t reach

and i guess i should thank
him for that,
shouldn’t i?

but if that’s all i have to thank
my father for
whose dna i share half of,
then what’s the ******* point?

tell me how i find the poetry
in a father that abused me
and then abandoned me

this man that didn’t want me
when i still thought i was his daughter,
and really didn’t want me for a son

what do i do with that?
how do i make it stop hurting?
how much gauze must i pack into
this gaping and gangrenous wound that
my childhood left
before it stops bleeding for good?

i was a kid,
i was just a kid
that needed his father,

but that’s never been something
i was willing to beg for,
nor should i have to

empty, cry and
kiss, thus feel
no shroud
of melancholy