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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i 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

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

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

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

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

She saw this moment as the end

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

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

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

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 am

the breakfast I didn’t eat

day old scars littering my arms

the burning peroxide running down the drain

water not yet tinged pink by blood

I am

the chips eaten at 2 AM

pills swallowed dry

scraping their way down my throat

contemplating a silent suicide

I am

the hand tremors

so bad I can hardly write

unfortunate side affect of the meds

keeping the demons at bay

I am

the last fare well

apologizing until my throat bleeds

for the slip ups and people I failed

scattered over my skin over and over again

I

am

human

but

I

don’t

really

want

to

live

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’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

remake me as a fish,
this time,
let the knife calluses on
your fingers catch on the edges
of my iridescent scales as you
tenderly place them,
one by one

peel back my eyelids
to gently place shiny
river stones, polished smooth,
into empty eye sockets

and i do not fear the
knife with the curved end,
this time, as you open the
tender skin along my neck
on either side into fluttering gills

dunk your arms into the water
until it kisses the ends of your
worn shirtsleeves, and let me
loose to swim among the lily
pads, burrow into silty lake bed

and i’ll wait for you there,
letting the gentle lapping of the
lake against the rocky shore
lull me into sweeter dreams

maybe you’ll shed that second skin,
one of these days,
remake yourself in your own image,
just this once

and though the hook tugs,
buried in the meat of my inner cheek,
i know this is also a gift

and i won’t come out of the
water in a hail of droplets and
red, red, blood, thrashing and
choking on the fresh air

nay, this wild thing that lurks
behind my breastbone has been
worn away to make room for
how the sun looks arcing out across
the waters, how the knife calluses
on your fingers feel on my scales,
and how gentle you are with every part
of me, even those that still catch sometimes,
as you remove the hook from the
meat of my inner cheek and watch as
i slip back beneath the waves

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

1..when i think of you,
i find myself as a teenager
again, both of us standing
in the middle of my messy
bedroom, with the curtains
and door both shut

and i don’t remember
who kissed first, but i
know how it felt when you
bit the inside of my lip,
and hot blood ran down
my chin

maybe there’s a greater
metaphor wrapped up in that,
but you were my first in more
ways that just a kiss
that ended ******

first girlfriend to first
boyfriend, growing into
who we were supposed to
be, side by side

until we stopped, and
i lost you somewhere
along the way, and i
never did find you again

i don’t want to
find you now, my first
and last of so many things

i try not to think of you,
and i wonder if you feel
that way about me, too

2..when i think of you,
i am 14 years old and
in what i thought was
love at the time, again

i’ve done a really
good job of forgetting you,
can’t even remember the
color of your eyes,
or how it made me feel
to wake up in your arms

you were simultaneously one
of the best and worst things
to ever happen to me

but i remember how
it made me feel when we
met for the first time at
the mall, and you took my hand,
looked me in the eyes and said,
‘i’m not afraid of people seeing
me holding your hand’

3..when i think of you,
we’re eating sushi and
drinking cokes,
meeting for the first time

it should have ended
then, but i’d gotten a taste
of what it was like to be
looked at and seen,
and wanted more

you never did look
at me like that again, though,
and it still makes me angry
to know that you wouldn’t
hold me, or even touch me,
unless you were ******

4..when i think of you,
we’re kissing in the cold
garage of your ex boyfriend’s
townhouse, and you’re touching
my cheek like i’m something
that deserves to be held tenderly

walking home in the
dark, feeling drunk off of
what might have been love,
i drafted a poem in my head
about another man
and we both wanted
there to be a love story
for us so ******* bad

but all you did
was use me up and then try
to take even more after
you’d already bled me dry

5..when i think of you,
it’s in the context of all
those pretty lies you fed me,
that i happily lapped up

and you were surprised
when i’d had enough and
bit the hand that held me
in a way that could have been
tender, but only made me bitter
in the end

6..when i think of you,
there is good food warming
my belly, and *** in my glass

we could go play
pirates together, and forget
what it is that holds us down,
that which we must carry,
if only for the night

and i don’t regret
loving you like i did,
oh captain of mine

7..when i think of you,
it’s like coming home again
after having been gone
for just a little too long

and i’ve been madly,
deeply, head over heels,
in love with you since i
met you when i was 16

when you read my
own words to me, and
i liked how they sounded
on your tongue, you made
me feel seen, feel known,
in ways i never had before

you know how to
soothe that great snarling thing
that lives between my ribs

you tell me i
am good, i am kind,
i am known and seen and
loved, and i believe you
every ******* time

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

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

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

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

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

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

of everything you want
in this world

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

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?

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

eating cold pad thai
from the carton,
breakfast lunch and dinner,
slouching in threadbare
pajama pants

sitting in the shower
with no water running,
alternating between laughing
helplessly, and crying just
the same

i’ll bite down on my
knuckles hard enough
to bruise, the tender
spots where my fingers bend,
muffled and muzzled this grief

playing pallbearer at my
own funeral, equally haunted
and haunting

i am nothing but a ghost,
rebounding off the walls
of this long since emptied house

and you’re somewhere
i can’t reach quite yet,
and i don’t have your number,
but you still have mine

so give me a ring sometime,
and i’ll pretend you’re close enough
to twine our fingers together
just one more time

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 bring a flannel to the
bathroom with me for
after my shower

no sports bra,
no binder,
no tee shirt

just fabric, soft from
years of wear, against
the scar that stretches,
unbroken, from armpit
to armpit

i watch myself in the
mirror, hairy stomach and
chest briefly on display,
pull the clover pendant out
to rest against the front
of the flannel, right over where
my scar is thickest in the middle
of my flat chest

i take the time to marvel at
how i get to wake up a man
every day, for the rest of
my life, because that is
what i chose

this is my one and only
most precious life, and i spent
far too long denying myself the
joy of my queerness and transness

why should i do that now?
why should i give into the misery that
is being pushed upon people like me,
when i get to watch the sunrise as i
walk to work? when my anniversaries of
top surgery and testosterone were only
one day apart last month? when i get to be an uncle?
when my mother calls me her son and
means it?

i am bathed in that early morning sun,
awash in so many rainbow hues,
no longer burning the candle at both ends

i will not be a statistic,
i will not be a martyr,
i will not be changed or silenced

and hell, wanting to die gets old,
after a little while

so i am going to grow up,
and i am going to grow old,
i am carving out a life for myself
that is worth living,
and holding onto that with
both of my hands

“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

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

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

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.

on the last bus of a
four transfer trek,
watching as the mountain,
covered in snow under all
that blue, blue, sky,
grows larger before me

but i’m not going home
no, i’m going to drink
and make merry with that
wild sea captain i fell in
love with as a younger man

and there’s not quite enough
liquid courage thrumming through
my veins and warming that
darkest pit that lurks in my stomach
to admit i never fell out of that love

though, if i lean a little closer
on that cracked leather armchair,
or if our hands brush when
playing best two out of three
with a board game, then no one
else needs to know

and when that wild sea captain
of mine declares himself a broken man,
i will not argue, because that’s
not my place

nor will i presume that this
is a fairy tale and i can somehow
love those jagged edges back together,
or that this is something to be fixed at all

and because this is no fairy tale,
since no greater force compels me,
i can be a constant of my own free will,
bringing with me baked goods and
loud laughs over cheap beers

i can love that sea captain,
not in spite of,
but because of,
those jagged edges

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

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

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

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

two beers and three tacos in,
the clover pendant falls
out of my necklace

while you superglue
it back in place, you look
over at me and ask,
“you’ve still got this?”

i have the first one
you gave me, too, that
i wore until it oxidized

because the materials
that you work with now
weren’t as nice then, but
i didn’t feel like myself
without that cord around
my neck

and since i am a bard,
a poet, a lover, and a hopeful,
hopeless, lovesick fool,
i want to say something back
about true north and true love

i’ve charted the stars in the sky,
and the wind in your sails,
and how the sunrise looks
when i’m making us breakfast
in the morning

it’s that soft glow,
the way you look at me,
that sets my heart ablaze

but that’s not what you
want to hear, is it, my love?

so i’ll flash you a quick grin,
toss back the rest of my
cheap beer, shrug, and say
cheerfully, “of course i do”

how strange it is,
my friend,
to age and grow older
without you by my side

bending down to pull
up my socks this morning,
and my *** left shoulder
cracks in a way that didn’t
hurt then, but promised
to later

my left knee also cracks
when i go up stairs now,
and even though you can’t
tell right now, because i went
and shaved my head,
i’m starting to gray at the temples

i feel simultaneously the
oldest, and the youngest,
that i’ve ever been

on that day i woke up
and you had been gone for
sixteen years, it felt like that
first time i’d fallen and landed
on my back and for a terrifying
few seconds, i couldn’t breathe

i haven’t been able to
take a full breath
since the last time i saw you

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

lonely darkness
strange flower
whisper broken
dreams

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

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

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

and sure, i guess that
the rituals i am constructing
here are a certain
kind of intricate

intimate?
INTRICATE

can’t just come right out
with it and ask to be held,
so i’ll provoke you instead,
my love

your fist,
my mouth

my bloodied teeth,
your soft neck

tighten your hands in the
collar of my threadbare jacket,
and at least you’re
touching me, then

and it feels like i’ve
written this before,
walking in tracks that
already match the soles
of my well-worn boots

and maybe i have, and maybe
it’s been about you
every ******* time

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

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

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

up before the sun,
walking under the softening
glow of a dotted moon,
already light down on the
street, yet still dark where the
light pollution can’t reach

and i want to be there,
almost desperately,
let’s go back to that spot
near the powerlines and
gravel roads, feel that
buzz in your molars

there’s a crackle in the air,
and we’re not far enough away
from the rest of it to find those
wild horses just yet,
but the bird call and chatter is
a **** good substitute

and i want to take a snapshot of you,
silhouetted by splash of sunrise
across the sky, something to keep
in the pocket of my jeans like a
polaroid, creased from running my
thumb across the surface

surprised to find that
the blood staining my
teeth belongs to me,
this time

eat your heart out
and all that,
i suppose

but when i served
that heart to you,
having carved it out
of my already scarred chest
with the knife that you
had already left in my back

well, you just stuck
up your nose and said
it still wasn’t enough,
i still wasn’t enough

were the potatoes i
served as a side over cooked?
was the dessert too bitter?
did the sobs i muffled into
the crook of my arm turn
your stomach?

did the meal turn
to ash in your mouth?
i certainly hope it did

you were my love,
my muse,
my five year plan,
i wanted to ******* marry you!

naive of me, huh?
to think someone so dissatisfied
and unhappy with themselves
could ever love me back
in the way i know i deserve

all you’ve ever known
how to do is use someone up
and then spit them back out

you left me in
worse shape than i was found,
bitter and jagged,
hollowed out and wary

your name leaves a
bad taste in my mouth

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 ask you to run away with me,
say, ‘let’s get that boat sea-worthy,
hop trains and take buses,
go where the wind takes us
for a change’

i’d follow you to where the
ocean meets the sky,
if you let me

i’ve got so much love to give,
so be a little selfish just this once,
and let me pack a bag

i’ll be by your side,
or a few steps behind,
for as long as you’ll have me

this doesn’t have to be
some grand adventure, no
fairy tale ending where you
hold me so softly

just let me make you breakfast,
buy that coffee you like every
once in a while, and let’s watch the
early morning sunlight cast the room
in a golden hue together

and maybe you’ll say yes,
one day

and maybe you won’t,
and that’ll be okay, too

there is a choice to be made here
a crossroads, if you will
and i very much do,
thank you

i can either keep beating
the dead horse of what
you did to me

or, what,
forget you?

like how you made me feel
when we first met and the cliche of
this boy is gonna break my heart
so i better break it first
ran through my head

isn’t it funny,
dearheart,
the lies we tell ourselves?

but you lied to me, too
in more ways than one, and
the coercive and manipulative man
i spent five (miserable) months with
was not the kind artist i
really could have fallen in
love with

i don’t care what happened
to that version of you anymore
because melancholy and remembering
do me no good

you taught me a lesson
unintentional though it may have been,
that flowery words and pretty poems
don’t mean anything without actions
to back them up

you knew just the right way
to break down my walls
to make me feel safe and loved
and i won’t forgive you for that

but i will forgive you
for enough
to forget

almost a decade after the
last time i saw my father,
i dream of his death

and isn’t that
just like, really
******* morbid?

i don’t know,
maybe it’s my subconscious
looking for closure in the
only way it knows how

if he’s gone, then he
can’t hurt me anymore,
except for when he
does leave me for real

and i look at myself
in the mirror when i
shave, and for the briefest
of moments i have been
made in his image

these tattoos, the way i grew
out my mustache and goatee,
the art that i do,
everything is haunted by him

i want to say to him,
to his back as he walks away,
‘look at me, *******,
don’t you see how i emulated you
so much and so well i
almost became you?’

is that not enough for
you to love me?
is that not enough for
you to be proud of me?
is that not enough for
you to want me?

and i know the answers
to the questions that don’t
keep me up at night,
but sometimes bring
hot, angry tears to my eyes
and a lump lodges in my throat

the wound my father left
still bleeds,
albeit sluggishly now

and i know that i have
done nothing wrong here,
because i was a child,
*******,
i was just a kid

i was just a kid

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

under the cover of
near darkness, with the setting
sun painting the clouds in the
richest of hues, and a light patter
of rain falling onto the trees,
i will say, “follow me”

and lead you by
the hand deeper into the forest,
where the glow of the sunset
hardly reaches, and i will say,
“here’s where i buried
a part of me”

you’ll ask me what
part that would be exactly, and
i’ll drop your hand to hang
my head and reply that i
don’t know anymore

you nod, and drop
softly to the forest floor,
pushing dirt aside like
you know exactly what
to look for

and maybe you do,
always able to coax out
the bitter and broken parts
and then hold me until i
am myself again

then, freeing a small
box from the wet earth,
you stand once more to
present this long-since buried
thing to me

part of me is
afraid to take it, which you
also seem to know, and tell me again,
“you are good. you were made to
love and be loved in turn, just like
we all were”

and we’ll bury that
box again together,
albeit empty this time

and you’ll take my
hands in yours to lead
me back out into the
velvet blue beauty of the night

and you’ll say to
me, with my head resting
on your shoulder,
“i’ll always be there to
walk you home”

and
and
and
i will always know
this to be true