i know things
i feel things
i see things
that no young man
let alone a child
should have been through

but it has left
me with something
besides tracks of scar tissue
and internal organs shot
to hell

call it a super power
a left over
an after shock
but i can see it in their faces
and even if they have laugh lines
and little wrinkles around their eyes
no matter the crinkling
something in their face is just
so **** sinister

and i see them
with their plastic smiles
and their clawed hands
the empty beer bottles
and the ripped up hand-made
cards and pictures
this is no childhood
and i want to run away

i am surrounded by them
these fake people
these picture perfect
skin-deep parents
and suddenly i am
a little boy again

i am so afraid
sleeping under my bed
so i cannot be found
curling up under my desk
biting my knuckles so i do not
make a sound
because no matter how much it hurts
i do not want her
to see me
to hear me

i am only a little boy
smaller than my mother
and she is so tall
i cower in her shadow
shake in the vise-like grip
that she has on my wrists
my upper arms
my shoulders
and the bruises may fade
but the trauma nightmares don’t

i am so scared
my mother is the big bad wolf
she can swallow me whole
her teeth are longer than my arm
and i am so confused
i don’t know why she is so mean
why she hates me so

i am just a little boy
and it all hurts so much
mommy mommy mommy
please don’t hurt me
please don’t yell at me
i can’t just laugh off the bruises
and your angry voice ringing in my ears
mommy mommy
please

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

you leave the clothes that
i loaned you, folded neatly on
the bed, and i buy you
a toothbrush

for the first time in
almost two years, i have
someone to text that
i’m on my way home from
work, and ****, i missed that

and the door is unlocked,
this time, but that’s okay
because that means you’ll
be there to grin up at me
from the blanket nest on
the kitchen floor, and ask
me how work was

i thought about you,
while peeling potatoes,
like taking you out to
dinner and a movie,
walking you to the door after

and i’m not writing a love
story here, just trying to
convey that you are known,
and seen, and loved

and my hands are a little shaky now,
but i’m still pretty handy with a needle,
so won’t you let me sew your most jagged edges down?

i am my father’s son
born up out of a grieving mother
that did not want a child
not a baby that needed to be fed
and nursed and changed and loved
she did not know how to be a mother
perhaps she was too young
but even i stopped believing that lie years ago
because even i know
with no intention of having children of my own
(too afraid that i’ll turn out like her)
that a mother’s love should not have an expiration date but more often than not it does

and for my granny
my father’s mother
her love ran out too soon
and he put so many miles and states between them that he has forgotten he even has a mother
and even though i do love my granny
i still hate her for breaking my father in so many ways that he had to smoke and drink out the parts of himself that were too much like her
and even now
with so many states and years between them
that is a kind of hurt that never goes away
and gods sometimes i ask myself why
people have children when they cannot be parents

and maybe that is why she hates me
(the woman that carried me with her
for nine months
and then years after that
who would have gone to the ends of the earth
for me if i had asked her to)
because there is so much of my father in me

i am his son
same hair and glasses and the expressive hands
and the need to be constantly moving
to be heard and seen and to exist
maybe my existence was too loud for her(?)

i have always been his son
even when she did not want me to be
she saw him in my eyes
and i in his
and there was no room for her
because she had left us both years ago
and she resented us for it

because i am not hers
i never have been
with the last name that i am refusing to keep
and the old house-key that i purposely lost
i am my father’s son
and i always will be

(and she resents me for it)
(she hates me for it)
(she tells me it makes me an unloyal son)
(but i am learning not to listen to her anger)

because i am my father’s son
and i always will be

perhaps funnily enough
it is not the sea captain
that the bard has built a
home for his heart
inside of

of course
the captain holds so many
pieces of this heart already
tucked into pockets of
his tattered long-coat
and tangled in his hair

but the bard has so much
more to give
love manifested as a bouquet
of daisies held together by
a simple leather cord

****** shyly into the waiting
hands of a siren
bobbing up and down in the waves
hair red like the sunset
streaming out behind her

and this siren
her scent like something akin to home
all cinnamon and clove and sea water
cups the bards face in
her two hands

running gentle and webbed
fingers over week-old stubble
she murmurs,
“hello there, my sweet bard”

and the tug the bard feels
to dive into the swelling
waves of the ocean
has nothing to do with the
sirens beautiful, deadly song

nay, this tug has everything
to do with the love
and adoration in the sirens eyes

and how that makes
the bards tender and poetic
heart fill almost to bursting
with how much
he also loves her,
his lady of the ocean
and the waves

my mistress
she is the wilderness
the feel of the backpack weighing me down
sinking my feet into the dirt
dragging me back with every
step i take

my mistress
she is the open sky
the constellations set over my head
and the stars burning out
and being reborn
constantly in a dance not meant for our eyes

my mistress
she is the heart on the
face of the mountain
seen by the playing children
swinging on their swings
pretending to fly

my mistress
she is the grape soda
the liquid courage
the teenager drinks
to help stave off the pain
when writing of sad things

my mistress
is the pain
the hole in my heart
that she left
when she went away
way too soon

my mistress
is the feeling of isolation
going beyond shutting yourself away in a room
that need to be closer to her
but the wilderness cannot hold you
it does not have a heart beat

but sometimes
the trees have her face
and you feel so much closer to her
think of how much she should have grown
how she should have graduated with them
******

my mistress
is the mountains and the peaks
begging me to come step over them
but they are mere ideas
shaped by the earth
and they only make my back hurt

my mistress
is being alone
where there are no hands to hold me back
but still i do not jump
because there are no hands to catch me
no arms to hold me close

my mistress
is the darkness outside my window
the rain on the asphalt
the smell of freshly cut grass
they do not bring her back
but they make life a little less painful

my mother
she makes my teeth chatter
she gives me chills
and not the good kind
all down my spine
a roiling in the pit of my stomach
right in the middle of my being
i can feel her there
sinking teeth and claws into my tender flesh
she so easily rips me aside
tears me asunder
i just want her to be proud of me
but i’ve forgotten how to be loveable
i don’t know how to make her proud of me
it is a losing battle
when she doesn’t even love or accept me
i don’t know what to do
she stomps on my fragile psyche
she makes me want to die
i just need
selfishly want
my mother to love me
why can’t
why won’t
she love me

Last Friday, 11/20/2015, I came out to my class as a transgender male, in the name of Kantian Ethics. This type of ethics is named for the German philosopher, Immanuel Kant. The basis of his ethic is very similar to the well-known Golden Rule, though his version is worded in the older style of dialect: “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
His version of the Golden Rule is the first of three in The Categorical Imperative. The second one states, “we can’t predict the consequences, so actions must be governed by what is morally right.” The third, and final one is much more blunt, stating, “we can’t use other people as a means to an end.”

The debate we had, where one side was for Kantian Ethics, and the other side was for Utilitarian Philosophy, was sparked because of a short story by Ursula Le Guin, titled, “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas.”
The short story is set in this fictional, utopian, town called Omelas. Everything is good, and all the people are happy. There is no need for drug-use, and the town is really up to the reader’s imagination to be described.
But, underneath all this seeming contentment and utopia, a darker secret lies.

In the introduction to this darkness, the author writes, “In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room.”
In this room, a child lives in fear and squalor. All the people of Omelas, children and elderly alike, know that this child is there. The child has no name, no discernible gender.

The children of Omelas, usually between the ages of eight and twelve, are told about this child. Sometimes young people come to see the child, and again as adults.
Most times, no matter how this matter has been explained to them, the young people witnessing this child, this pitiful thing, are shocked and sickened.
Again, more often than not, since the young ones are not inherently evil, they would like to do something for the child. But, they cannot.
For, if the poor child were brought up out of that basement...cellar...that horrible dark place, “all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms. to exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed.”

“The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child.”

But, there is one thing that may make this realization less terrible and shocking for some: sometimes one of the young boys or girls who has gone to see the child doesn’t go back home. This also happens for older men and women. They just leave. They walk away from Omelas, alone, west or north, towards the mountains. They do not come back. They keep walking.

Being transgender, I feel for this child a lot. But, I also feel, and relate with, the people, young and old, who walk away from Omelas.
When I was seven years old, and still living as a female, I realized that I was different than the other young girls my age. It wasn’t just that I hated having my hair long, wearing anything but sneakers, ripped up jeans, and baggy sweatshirts, and was never a fan of dolls. I just felt, wrong. Not right. But, I didn’t know what it was. I just knew that when my mother called me her little girl, it made my stomach hurt. I thought I was sick. A freak. Why couldn’t I just be my mother’s little girl?

This is where the child at the root of Omelas’s happiness and purity comes in for me. I was living inside of myself. I was the parasite under my own skin. But, I did it to keep my family, and my friends, happy. I stayed quiet. Because, I have always put others before myself. I shut my true self away to keep my own little town in the sun. To keep my own little world spinning on its axis. For, if it were to fall out of orbit, I did not know what would happen, but I did know that it would be bad.

I stayed in the metaphorical “closet” until I was sixteen. Nine long years. Trust me, time moves the slowest for a child. A day can last a thousand years.

But, then, I had had enough. I had my new name, my big-boy-boxers on, and short hair. I was ready. I exploded out of myself in a burst of bright colors. I walked away from the gender norms that society had forced upon me from such a young age, I didn’t even know what they meant. But, on that day, when the angry sixteen year old boy walked away from the childbearing and rearing, the dresses and daughter, mother, sister, I knew that I was never going back.

I knew who I was. Who I had always been. And, my rage was beautiful, and absolute.

They took me to church
My mom dropped us off
The smaller one looked beautiful
I looked like I always do
Grimy and broken
I can’t say that
I worshipped like a dog
But I did consider praying
Even though all my prayers
Are merely selfish whims
Like peace on earth
And good will towards all men
I’m probably going to
Hell for calling Jesus a ******
First thing
But humor is how I deal
And my sense of humor is terrible
She looked so beautiful
In that moment
Standing under the lights
Shining out through the big glass windows of the church
That I wanted to freeze that image and shrink it down and put it in my pocket
And keep it safe and sound forever
But time rolls on
People and things wither
Crumble and die
In that moment I
Swear that the fact that I am
An atheist in church meant more to
Me than it did to the people around me
But that didn’t matter
Because she is a shining star that
Fills up my dark skies
And her beauty fills me with light
And I feel content in this moment
Watching her shine

won’t admit to being
a good man, if that’s
something i’ve ever
really been

but, oh, i’ll admit
to being selfish in
a heartbeat

i want, and
i crave, and
i yearn

and i’m just a
love letter to you,
in a language that you
can’t yet read

and that’s okay,
because the love,
well, it’s still there

this torch i’ve been
carrying for you,
this candle i’ve been
burning at both ends

surely the sun must still
rise, cast warm light on
the darkest and most jagged
parts of me

let me be your first
port in a storm

let me be selfish,
just a little while longer

for one, maybe two, years
after, i play words with friends
against one of the women that
sexually assaulted me

i was seventeen, and i
******* begged for them to stop,
please stop,
you’re hurting me

no one else at the wedding
after party heard me, music too
loud and champagne flowing too
freely

and the first person i told,
before she dropped me off
in front of the wrong house,
said, ‘i’m not calling you
a liar….but’

(her ******* husband
groped me, four years later,
and let me tell you, that’s some
irony i could have done without)

and the second person i told,
looked me in the eye and said
i was making the assault into
something it wasn’t, and i
needed to forgive those two women

i stopped telling people,
after that, choosing instead to
bleed out how wrong being touched
in that way made me feel

i don’t remember what i
was wearing, and i suppose
there’s a certain kindness in that,
my brain closing off that particular
memory so securely

i don’t remember what i
was wearing the first time,
either, but why would i, after
more than twenty years?

i lose count after the third time,
telling her to stop touching me
that way, looking around at other
patrons in the restaurant, that know
both of us, begging them to
say something, to help me,
but no one does

no one does
no one does
no one does

and this is a bandage, wrapped so
tight, that i do not pick at,
nor do i lift up the edge to
see what gangrenous ruin
lies beneath

and still, some nights i find myself
standing on the knife's-edge of
that dark abyss, haunted by the
ghost of something forced upon me

but i do not rage,
i do not drink until i am unable to stand,
unable to remember how all of
those hands felt on my skin,
i do not bleed over those ghosts

i do not bleed over those ghosts,
but sometimes the noose of that
trauma is so unforgiving i can’t breathe,
and i am seventeen again,
and i am twelve,
and i am five, maybe six

and these wounds, they are
open and screaming and bleeding
and so ******* hungry and i am
just so tired of being haunted

i am just so tired of being haunted

----
1. no beauty

was it beautiful?
like sitting at a desk
riddled with indents from
keeping the scissors away from skin
rocking back and forth
with only one thing circling
through an addled mind
the overwhelming urge to die
feeling ready to write that final
chapter on a life barely lived

was it beautiful?
forty pills that seemed like
enough at the time
choked down with soda water
and so many built up tears
feeling the rot of depression
absorbing the medicine that was
supposed to make things better
*******

was it beautiful?
regretting waking up hours later
younger sibling in the next room
noticing the stumble
the swearing that came from
feeling organs clench and shatter
but nothing coming up

was it beautiful?
admitting to taking so many pills
tongue feeling shredded by the words
being asked to stay awake
but only feeling so much anger
at having failed
at waking up again
at still being alive

was it beautiful?
three psych wards
every time a voluntary check in
unable to stay safe
healing scars
bashing limbs against every hard surface
ripping open old wounds
both inside and out
there is nothing beautiful
in self destruction

2. no romance

was it romantic?
hospital beds and an iv
in the back of a shaking hand
monitored bathroom breaks
too many to count while a body
too young to feel so old
purged itself of so many toxins

was it romantic?
fingernails chewed down to nothing
ragged cuticles
raw and ****** knuckles
because those hurt just a little bit less
than constantly pulling open
scabbed over splits in
gnawed on lips

was it romantic?
looking for love to give to others
not leaving enough behind to keep
not caring about that
too busy wanting to go home
please fix this
make the hurt go away
make everything shiny and new again

was it romantic?
unable to find respite
from the mental onslaught
in the unmarred arms of another
because illness and depression
do not care about
kissing scars to heal them
or boxes of chocolate
or roses
or whispered “i love you”s
because life is not a
teen romance novel

was it romantic?
wanting to die
even while sitting next to
that person that made things
not hurt so bad
and feeling guilty about fresh cuts
fresh bruises
burn marks that could be explained
away as accidents

was it romantic?
mass media certainly seems to think so
here’s looking at you
john green and jay asher
because why should people have
struggles if they can’t be candy-coated
and wrapped up in neat little bows
with complementary
packets of tissues on the side

was it romantic?
smelling of blood
and sweat from so many nightmares and terrors
trembling and shaking
racked by guilt and anxiety
waiting for an ulcer
waiting for something to happen
to make it seem worthwhile
because in mental illness and trauma
there is no prince
no princess
no damsel in distress
no disney movie happy ending
there is no romance
in wanting
to constantly die

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

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

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

for she will drown you
just the same

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

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

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

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

Something that really disgusts, and ruins shows for me, is when the writer's resort to demonizing transgender people as a shock factor. This has happened in Criminal Minds, and X-Files, and most likely a lot of other shows I've watched, that I don't care to remember right now. It is literally just so tactless, and horribly transphobic, and, for some of us, it can be triggering. I am not a monster. My brothers and sisters are not monsters. But, how we are treated by the media, THAT IS MONSTROUS. I am not a shock factor or a scare tactic. I do not go bump in the night. I am up close and personal. I am real. I am a human being, too. And, most of all, I am sick and tired of crap like this happening. It all leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

you killed all the
nice queer people and all
that’s left is me
with my shaking hands
and cracking voice
and fear giving way to anger
and a tiredness that nestles
ever deeper into my bones

and monday the 20th is
the 18th transgender day of remembrance
where the community mourns all
of its trans and nonbinary and genderfluid
and gender nonconforming siblings
because they were killed for
daring to be themselves
in a world that would rather
bury their dead sons and daughters
than have a child who changed their
name and gender marker
to the right ones

because being trans and queer
in a trump america
is an act of deviance and rebellion
where i could get beaten up for
using the mens room
and it would be my fault
because i am other
i am a freak
they do not understand me
and therefore that makes
me the enemy

but you have sat next to me
on the bus
in the movie theater
in the bathroom stall next to mine
while my anxiety mounted as
i waited for the bathroom to clear
out so i could leave safely
and i know when you look at me
you do not know what box
to force me into

and i want to know
you owe us all the answer
of how many more of our
siblings have to die before
you realize that we are people too
i am as human as you are
my correct hormones are just store-bought
and i had to claw my way into
the words of brother
and son
and nephew
and grandson
and boy boy boy
and male male male

but you have killed all the
nice queer people and all
you have left is me
and i am making my anger
into a louder voice
that will never be silenced
because you can cut out
my tongue and you can
take away my basic human rights
and you can even **** me

but the truth is that you will
always be more afraid of me
than i am of you
because while you ****
what you do not understand
i embrace it

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 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

bardling, a noun

I. to describe an inexperienced
and thus usually
inferior poet

II. more lover than fighter
preferring a broken heart
over ****** knuckles
but, don’t both burn
just the same?

III. and i can’t carry a tune
hands too unsteady to hold
an instrument with any
kind of confidence
but i could hold you
if only you’d let me

IV. though, what kind of
bard can i really be
if i don’t believe in
the concept of being in love
and the novelty of soulmates
continues to escape me?

V. not your bard
or bardling, rather
though, i could be
if only you’d ask
but it’s selfish of me
to want that, i know

VI. so, my love
and my captain
and my dear, dear friend
i’ll don bright clothes
and remake myself in
to a fool instead

VII. lay down some of this
melancholy at your feet
trying out glass half-empty
in all manners of love

VIII. and maybe i’ll learn how to
carry a tune without
my voice cracking

IX. a way to trick my hands into
no longer shaking
when i hold that instrument close
and coax such pretty sounds from
the strings

X. and, if i’d rather hold you
in place of all those strings
and stained wood
well, no one needs to know

You are a novel

lodged behind my ribs

jammed into the shattered remains of my heart

I can feel the internal bleeding

slowly killing me

how I wish it would hurry the **** up

You are a novel

stuck in my lungs

worse than cigarette smoke

You are a novel

a novel

a novel

a novel

A NOVEL

You are a novel

with

blank

pages

invisible ink

and dried blood

You are a novel

and I want to tear out

shred

maim

massacre

and burn

every single mother ******* page

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

it’s always funny
the things that you
end up remembering
about someone

like that he used
irish spring soap
except, no he didn’t
i used irish spring

and so does my grandfather
which i know because
he’s the one that gave
me the soap when mine
ran out

i know where that soap is
upstairs in a cabinet
lined up at least three across
and four deep

went looking for the hair-dryer
so i could more quickly finish
coating a used canvas in alternating
layers of black and white paint
and got lost in the smell
of irish spring soap

and that made me think of
my father for some inexplicable reason
he never used irish spring soap
but he did use flower scented perfume
and those scents are arguably close

and i wondered if i was looking
for something in that cupboard
that it couldn’t offer me

and i wore these two
beat-to-**** leather jackets
that my father gave me
from middle school to high school
along with a sweater that
clung to how he smelled
even after i’d washed it

i got rid of those two jackets
and the sweater
earlier this year
realized that looking at them
only made me sad
and maybe also a little angry

i kept that pocketknife
he gave me, though
and a stuffed bunny rabbit
and i wonder why

there is a practicality
in keeping the pocketknife
and maybe a certain kind of
sentimentality in the bunny

but who am i to say, really
why i kept these two things
and not the leather jackets
and sweater

maybe i am looking for something
that none of these objects can
offer me

maybe they remind me
of my father
in that he has nothing to offer me

and even if he did
i wouldn’t pick up the phone

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

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

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

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

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

and
and
and
i am drunk

i am drunk
and angry
and hurting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

does the melancholy come
before the sorrow
or is it the other way around?

does being a fool make
me a poet
or am i a poet because
i was first a fool?

if my hands were steady
enough to hold an instrument
i could be your darling bardling
and sing you into immortality

but my voice is as shaky
as the rest of me
even when you’re not around

and there’s nothing poetic about
a bard that can’t hold a note
without going all to shambles

is there, my love?

Fill a bathtub

with my sorrow

so sweet

so cold

so sharp

so

I can drown

myself in it

Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

my first introduction to piracy
as a young lad
was that my father drank grog

one shot of old crow
a couple more splashes
of lukewarm tap water

always on the rocks
swirled around once
and downed in a single swallow

i wonder if he drank
when i wasn’t around
but didn’t know how to ask

and really, how do you
ask your father if you’re the
reason he drinks?

and i haven’t seen
or heard from my father
since i was 18

but i know he stopped drinking
when i was 7
and i wonder who it was for

selfishly, of course
i’d like to think it was for me
but i know better now

and it may not be his fault he didn’t
know how to be a proper father
but it hurts just the same

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

i still don’t know
if i have been able to properly
express the sheer terror

of being seven years old
and realizing i liked girls
but that i
myself
was not a girl

words like homosexual
and transgender
did not exist to me
and were adamantly not
taught about in schools

this lack of knowledge
not knowing that i could
be anything beyond that
six letter word on
my birth certificate

the only conclusion
i was able to come to
as a scared child
was that i must
have been a
freak

there was something wrong
with me and within me
feeling my guts twist
every time i was called
a girl and not knowing why
it hurt so bad

and now
as a young man
i am able to find words that
downplay this nine years
of confusion and turmoil
shaping that pain into
something that is palatable

i do not have to do this
nor should i be expected to

but it is easier than saying
i was hellbent on destroying
the body i had because it
was not what it was supposed to be

it is easier than saying
i was willing to die
as a girl

if that meant the pain would stop

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

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

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

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

and what do i have to
show for it?

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

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

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

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

your cup doesn’t
runneth over

it just runs out

“do cats understand time?”
i ask my cat
scratching under her chin
“or do you just move
between food and sleeping?”
“it’s been a year since honey bear died”
“do you miss her too?”

my cat gave no answer
not even a purr
but her eyes looked sad
and then i remembered that
after honey bear died
she would lay right where
the dog’s bed used to be
as if she were keeping watch

i still find dog hair
on some of my clothes
and the whole back seat
of my stepdad’s truck
is blanketed in her fur
it still smells like her

so does the closet
out in the livingroom
where her bed used to be
and sometimes
i still think i can hear
her toenails on the floor
her little huffing breath
and i miss her so much

i have had dreams
where i go to the back door
and call her name
over and over
leaning out of the doorway
and into the dark night
but she never comes
she never comes
and i wait
calling her name over and over
but she never comes

it’s been exactly one year
since she passed
a whole **** year
and it doesn’t feel anywhere
near that long
it feels like yesterday

my chest hurts
my heart aches
i feel hollow
i miss my girl so much
but
i know she is no longer in pain
she can see
and run without her hips hurting
there are no more needles
no more vet visits
but i miss her so

i love her
i love her
i lover her

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

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

Maybe not physically.

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

He always had such a beautiful neck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Raised lines where he glued them back together.

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

They were both broken things.

The duct tape that held each others wounds closed.

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

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

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

Remembering how his voice had sounded right before he left.

Rough with the thickness of sleep.

His morning voice was always so beautiful.

Everything about him was beautiful.

He was beautiful.

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

And coffee.

Always coffee.

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

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

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

And then, one day, he was gone.

His clothes were still there.

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

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

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

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

What they greeted her with, was a goodbye.

you say “man up”
like that is not what i am doing
because i am preparing to mourn
breast tissue that i never wanted
and i am going to stick a needle in my thigh
my stomach or maybe even my *** cheek
for the rest of my life
to make my outsides look like my insides feel

you say “man up”
and that was the last time
the first and the last time
that i cried in front of you
because when i let those tears
that saltiness spill over my lids and down
my cheeks i know that you didn’t see them
you only saw what made me a woman
and in your eyes
crying easily made me less of a man

you say “man up”
like that is an easy thing to do
like i know how to do that
like i know how it feels
to forcibly stamp down on
everything that i feel that
isn’t a hunger
for meat so rare it bleeds
or wanting to open up a woman from
her thighs onward
or wanting a truck with wheels so big
i cannot even climb up into it
but i must need it
all of those things
to compensate for the **** that i do not have

you say “man up”
and when i say no
you laugh at me
and tell me i am sensitive and silly
and need to learn to take a joke
but these things that you find humorous
are what got me called a freak in middle school
to the point where i took a blade to my skin
for six years because i was always
too much of a boy to be a girl
and too much of a girl to be a boy
and my haircut makes me look like a lesbian
and wanting to wear skirts makes me a girl
and for some reason you seem to think
that it is you and your opinion that
has the ability and the power and the right
to dictate who i am as a person

so when you say to me “man up”
i want you to look not at my *******
or picture what you assume is in my pants
look me in the eye ******
because i want you to see how much your
words hurt and you will watch as i cry
because being told that for so long
is what those words make me want to do
you make me want to cry
your trying to push me into a box
that makes me easier to define
erases who i am as a person

so when you say to me “man up”
just go ahead and assume that my answer
will be no
because i see no shame
in liking skirts
in liking the color pink
in crying easily
in gesticulating when i talk
because there is no shame
there is no shame
in being soft
in being gentle
in being a ******* *****
because now i wear that label with pride
and it no longer hurts
because i am comfortable in myself
because there is no shame
there is no shame in being me
and i am done apologizing

sitting on the toilet
taking a ****
because there is no nice way to
say i am emptying my body of the
garbage that i have shoved into
my gaping maw of a mouth
today
tonight
it’s dark out
but i’m not sure what time it is
everything is blurry
my eye is gummy
i can feel the staples
pulling out when i blink
in and out
they stick and unstick
a timeless rhyme
but ******
i saw the vanity scissors
through the slit in the back of the drawer
and i thought of taking them to my wrists
and throat
and thighs
and arms
wondered how sharp they would be
didn’t care what was caked on them
i just wanted to let out
this demon smoke
trapped under my skin
it tries to seep out through my mouth
but gets caught between my teeth
maybe that’s why they have a faint
greyish tinge to them
the red lining isn’t gums anymore
it is simply self hatred and destruction
and the skin of this innocent girl that
i use to floss my teeth with
because you must keep fangs razor sharp
when all you have is nubs for finger tips
and my toes are useless cuz all they
do is crack and splinter and bleed
my fingers fly across the keyboard
but not fast enough
falling behind
slipping on the trail of spilled ink
a purple and pink and red and orange
and cotton candy blue
mess running down my thighs
all i bleed now is a broken string
of i am so ******* sorry

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’

Aren’t you all getting sick and tired
of hearing/seeing news to the tune of
a pathetic white man with a gun?

Aren’t you all sick and tired
of seeing children murdered
in cold blood?

Aren’t you all sick and tired
of seeing college students
and adults
murdered in cold blood?

Aren’t you all sick and tired
of minorities being gunned down
because they are minorities?

Aren’t you all sick and tired
of pathetic white men being called lone wolves
and mentally ill because of the color of his skin,
and making the stigma that actual mentally ill people
are violent even worse than it already is?

Aren’t you all sick and tired
of being afraid for your life,
your child’s lives,
your friends and family
that are minorities?

Because, as a mentally ill minority,
I sure as hell am.
As a transgender person,
a WHITE transgender person,
my life expectancy is already only 40.
And that’s not because I’ll **** myself.

America is going to drown
in the spilled blood and grief from children,
adults, and minorities being murdered,
because people place their right
to carry assault weapons
OVER OUR LIVES.

Children should not have to go through active shooter drills.
Parents should not be involuntarily outliving their children.
Minorities should not have to fear for their lives.

There is SUCH AN EASY SOLUTION TO THIS.
It’s not rocket science.
It’s gun control laws.
No one wants to take away your guns.

We just want to live.
Please.
We just want to live.

unrequited love is all well
and good in songs
written out as a poem
a sonnet
a ballad
but the reality hurts

the only heart i’ve ever
broken is my own
which, i guess that’s not
such a bad track-record

and what kind of poet
a wanna-be bard
would i be if i didn’t
think or speak with my mind
but with my heart
my love?

but i have grown tired
of licking my wounds
always hoping for hands
that are more steady than my own
to take this hurt from me

and i am so full of love
yours for the taking, always
i’d give you my heart if i could
better with a knife than with blood
but that’s a risk i’m willing to take

i ache, i ache, and i ache
not entirely knowing what for
maybe out of longing
something akin to wanting?
an answer only i can give

but i still don’t know
what the question could be
and so words die on my tongue
afraid of smothering you under
the weight of whatever
this is

so you call yourself pro-life
okay, I guess I can pretend to respect that
which then means that you must also
respect the fact that I am very loudly pro-choice
and thanks to science
I know that a bundle of cells
and a living child are not the same thing

because an actual fetus is not fully formed
until the third trimester
and by fully formed I mean that it is
for all intents and purpose alive
but before that
there is nothing but a group of cells
there is no brain
no heart
not even pearly pink fingernails

so now what, huh?
you’re probably going to keep protesting
Planned Parenthood and harassing the people
that work there, right?
because all that Planned Parenthood does
is condone the vicious and inhumane ******
of defenseless, unborn children, right?
right?

either way, you don’t care about the child
once they’re born
all that you care about is making a woman
and other individuals who have a ******
carry this thing that is literally feeding off of them
and why should a child be brought into this world
if the circumstances through which it was
conceived are non-consensual?

because, if you really did care
if you really were “pro-life”
then you would care about the child
after it is born
or better yet
you could turn your attention and time and money
and anger to all the millions of orphans living
in the US

ya know, the living children?
with no homes?
with no parents?
packed like sardines in orphanages?
what about them?
do they not matter because they are not a group
of cells, and therefore not defenseless?
and therefore they do not matter?

because,
if you only care about that bundle of cells
and because some states actually make women
and those with uteruses
have funerals for the aborted “child”
then by default whenever a man
masturbates and then *******
shouldn’t he be made to have a separate
funeral for each of the thousands of children
that he just killed?
because one of them could have cured cancer, ******

and tell me
when I was still menstruating
should I have said “amen”
over all the potential children that bled out
of my body and into the pad
and the sides of my boxers?

should I have
said “grace” over all the
little pad mummies that I threw away?
should I have cried when I flushed
the ****** toilet paper?

because,
since I have a ******
how dare I want and feel as if I should
be owed control over my own body, right?

how dare I believe that
each and every woman
biological and otherwise
have a say in what they do with their body
how dare I be pro-choice, right?

well, let me knock you down
a few pegs with this closing statement:
if you only care about the “child” when it is
just a group of cells that doesn’t feel a **** thing
and couldn’t care less about it
once it is born
and homeless
or an orphan
or queer
then you are not “pro-life”
what you are
is an *******

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

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

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

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

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

#prayfororlando

the tears they stick to my face
burning like salt in a fresh cut
though mine were never very deep
they were always fresh and there
and there was blood all over my clothes
mainly my long sleeves and sweatshirts
i remember the first time i bled through a shirt
at school and the butter knives that i hoarded
like i was gonna fight off my demons with little
ridged pieces of plastic
but ****** they kept me company
when mother dearest was either too drunk or ******
to realize my first cut
i mean come on lady it bled like a stuck pig
i cut really close to the vein that time
sometimes i wish i had had the guts to
go deep enough that first time
and i never would have had to deal with
four years of self-destruction
maybe if my mom had pressed me for the truth
but it’s more my fault than hers
though for once
that is not the reason why i am crying

i am not enough of a boy
but i’m too much of a boy to be a girl
and i’m too much of a girl to be a boy
but ****** who are you to label me
you haven’t asked me how this feels
you only cared right after i tried to **** myself
and only then i’m convinced you only asked because
my little sister was in the next room
and the doctor
his name rhymed with cranberry
and i hated him right away
he told my my being transgender
was just a diversion tactic
like buddy dood sir mister ******* listen to me
i am so ******* open about my mental illness
it’s all i talk about
i am literally a broken ******* record
i am loud and out and proud about everything that
is going on with me
both inside and outside
and if i wanted to create a “diversion”
i would have just slit my throat
because then i would have made my mother happy
by not being able to correct her when she continued
to call me her sweet little precious little
baby girl

you say i can’t be a boy
because of the clothes i wear
and the little tics i have
how i do jazz hands when i’m excited or happy
and this is a rare emotion
you should be proud that i am an emotional guy
instead of just a rock
a pillar of broken pieces
and yelling and grabbing and scars
because you and daddy dearest
you taught me that i should keep everything
inside of me
because you do not understand what is happening
to your little girl
and neither do i
but i do understand enough to know that
since i was seven
i was just a kid
i have known i was different
and it was okay for other people to be a lesbian
to be gay or bisexual or god forbid transgender
but i couldn’t do anything more exciting than wear
mismatched socks and combat boots to school
you didn’t bother to educate me on those things
and that’s why when i found out what transgender meant
through tumblr might i add
i finally knew that i wasn’t some broken toy
i’m not a freak
i am not a freak
but you make me feel like a freak

but i can’t be a girl either
because every time someone misgenders me
or calls me she or her or you introduce me
as your ******* daughter
it makes me want to rip out my insides
to show you that they have the word
boy painted on them
in blue and dripping paint
my insides are male
but i can’t be a boy
no i can’t
because i didn’t show any signs of it
growing up
i came out too late for mommy dearest to
believe or accept me
i can’t be a boy because i have a ******* ******
well you accept famous transgender people
and i am sorry that i don’t have the money to transition
i would if i could
but i’m pretty sure i’ll be dead before then anyway

i scared the dog with my sobbing and yelling
he’s still hiding in the bedroom upstairs
and i should be doing my summer school
but you have never been supportive of my schooling
so i really don’t see the ******* point
and sometimes the voices sound like you
they tell me what a disappointment i am
how i am so wrong
how you don’t love me
how you can’t love me
how i am going to hell
i am afraid to go to sleep at night
because all i do is dream about being dead
they tell me in your voice
that you would rather have me dead and a girl
than alive and a boy
and i am afraid that that is how you
really feel about me
like sorry i was ever born

i am not a girl
but you say i can’t be a boy
then i say i am not real
you are grieving a ghost
you say you want your little girl back
maybe you should have loved her more
both of you
this is for both of you
*******
you ruined the best thing either of you
has ever and will ever have
but this idea
this radical idea
that i may actually know better than either
of you what i was born to be
this is what keeps me going
late at night when i want to start
stock-piling my trazodone
maybe this time will be the charm
and then you can put her name on
my headstone and make me wear
the prettiest dress that i never would
ever wear while alive
but a corpse can’t talk
so what does it matter
i can be your little girl again
even if she is just a body

but **** that
i am going to keep on living
and yes
lopping off my ******* will solve
a lot of my problems
i am going to start t *******
even if you disown me
i have created my own little family
we are the lost boys and girls
the demon left in the presence
of your non acceptance
and i will be who i was always meant to be
a boy
my name is priestly
i am a boy
and even if you don’t accept or believe me
and that really ******* hurts
but i am good at hiding things
i believe and accept myself enough
for the both of us
and i have friends that
believe and accept me too
i am going to keep on living
because as her i was just surviving
but now finally after so many
long and hard and trying years
i am glad to be alive
i am living
as who i was meant to be
and i literally cannot believe that you
had the guts
to use the ******* gender binary on me
you ******* *** hag
and stereotype me into your little box
of blue for boys
and pink for girls

well maybe i like purple better

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

recklessness is something i
found myself excelling in
from a young age

maybe too young?
when did this stop being fun?
when did this body grow so old?

but self destruction loses its appeal
rather quickly
and the soul breaks sooner than the body

i believed in this destruction
treated it like a gospel
too many death wishes to count

and when i did try
faint white scars like tally marks
the sheer number made my head spin

i needed something else to
believe in
another thing to be reckless with

the metaphor of my heart was a start
so full of love and remembered light
practically bursting at the seams

this constant beating
pumping of warm blood to cold limbs
maybe you’ll hold me for a while, my love?

i believe in love
like a poet and a hopeless romantic
maybe the same, but who am i to argue semantics?

being reckless with my love and my heart
all this love to give
bidding farewell to destruction and disaster

every human needs something to believe in
a reason to keep going
and love
reckless and sweet and freely given love
seems like a good place to start

i know that
most days
the cathedral of your body
with all its dips and curves
forgotten staircases
and ripped velvet covers
on the splintered pews
is hard to love

and there are days
where you wish that your
body would have manifested itself
as a palace
made of ivory and bone
with great empty halls
that would host nothing else
but your anguished cries
and empty stomach

but these things
are incapable of filling you up
because it is hard to sustain yourself
on bitterness and past scars alone

so i say to you
my friends
brothers and sisters
my lovers
and those living in the wastelands
of themselves

cast aside these
things for you are not a church
or a palace or a temple

no
you are something
much stronger and vast
grow yourself into a forest

turn all the sleepless nights
and breakdowns and hospital visits
and suicide attempts
and those traintracks of scars
into the great twisting trunks of trees

grow yourself as big and bold
as you need to be
protect yourself
wrap up all your sharp and soft
edges and corners
into the bark of mother nature

become a forest
because
through fire and drought and storm
and flood
the forest always comes back
even the charred remains of trees
stand strong

so
i say to you
with your dark circles
and long sleeves
and chest hidden behind a binder
with all your scars
and imperfections
be a forest
because
a forest is unstoppable
it always comes back
it always grows back

and so will you

i left some of myself
behind last night
sitting on the edge of my bed
shaking in a batman tee shirt and boxers
the smell of fear wafted off my skin
and when the razor met my flesh
i was surprised that it did not sizzle
or protest in some way
though i suppose that may have been up to me
but i kept going
scratching until i bled
taking off some hair as well
and i wanted to slice right in the middle of my arm
but i was afraid of bleeding out
because right then
i didn’t want to die
i was just tired

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RIP -A Poem For Leelah Alcorn
Do not tell me
that it gets better
when another one of my
people another one of
my sisters
and surely thousands of brothers
but this sister
who I didn’t even get the
chance to meet
this sister
whose blog I only knew about
thanks to her suicide note
this sister
whose parents can’t even respect
her pronouns after she is dead
they did not lose a son
they drove a daughter
their daughter
to end her life
and even after her body
is not yet cold in the ground
still call her son
your darling son died years ago
and now your daughter is dead too
and she isn’t coming back
this isn’t an accident
I know what suicide looks like
I have almost been a victim many times

Do not tell me
that it gets better
when my sister is dead
and she is being misgendered
in the news articles and media

Do not tell me
that it gets better
when she
Leelah Alcorn
that is her name
was pushed to suicide by an
uncaring un-understanding world

Do not tell me
that it gets better
when my sister is dead
and her parents still have the nerve
to beg for sympathy and call
her a boy
even after death

Do not tell me
that it gets better
when we are still killing ourselves
only to be written off as mere statistics
and gender-identity
sexuality in and of itself
still isn’t taught in schools

Do not tell me
that it gets better
when my sister is dead
and I cannot attend her funeral
all I can do is write ****** poetry
and hope that she forgives me for not
being able to speak around the lump
in my throat

Do not tell me
that it gets better
when countless people that were
born in the wrong body
that do not fit the norms
will be misgendered at their funerals

Do not tell me
that it gets better
because the harsh reality is
that thousands of us will
live life in fear
drowning in a hopelessness
and sadness that nobody else knows
because not all of us have accepting
families and friends
and our suicides will be written off
as mere accidents
but nobody steps in front of
a semi on accident

Do not tell me
that it gets better
when my sister died knowing
thinking knowing thinking knowing
that her parents didn’t love her
they loved their son
they will mourn their son
when it is their daughter that died
and she will never know a true mothers and fathers love

Do not tell me
that it gets better
when the harsh truth is that
if I do not change my name legally
I too will be
misgendered at my funeral

Do not tell me
that it will get better
when my sister is dead
unless you want to feel the wrath
of my transgender rage
over the injustice that is written across the scars on our wrists and signed on the dotted lines of our suicide notes

Do not tell me
that it will get better
because my sister died not
knowing that

Don’t you worry

your pretty little head,

my love

Safe is my middle name

On every day that

doesn’t end

in

Y