what poet
and furthermore what bard
worth his salt
isn’t at least
a little bit in love
with his muse?

seems a common affliction
for an artist
a love compounded by inks
and thread and a voice thickened
by tears left un-shed

there is nothing to cry about
though, beyond all the silly ways
i’ve found to break my own heart

wishing i could put the blame
on you but knowing this
metaphorical blood is solely
on my own two shaking hands

and maybe that’s my lot
in this life, at least
sleepless nights on my own
yearning to rest my head on
your shoulder and knowing
that you’ll let me every time

and maybe i wrote you
with softer edges
and a smile just for me
and i broke my own
silly little bardling heart
wide open with no help
from anyone at all

because, my love, while
the truth of the matter is
that i love you
have loved you
as a poet and a bard
to his muse

there has always been
so much more than
these words i put down on
paper, knowing you
will never read them
and i will never offer
to speak them aloud
again

for you never were my love
though, it is bold of
me to call you so
and not just from an artistic
standpoint either
but out of a misguided hope

or something just as silly
like a poet and a bard
falling in love with his muse
and mistaking it for
the real thing

i lick the tears
smudged on the lenses of my glasses
littered among the fingerprints
they taste like the salt that i pour
into my wounds on a daily basis

i don’t bother to
clean my glasses until i literally
can’t see out of them because of how
***** they are because it’s easier to face the world
when i can’t really see it

even when i can
see what is coming at me once again
i find it terrifying instead of comforting
it’s like being able to see the fist coming at you
but not being able to dodge it in time

as this metaphorical fist
connects with my face
i realize i haven’t had the chance to take
off my glasses before i was hit
and wonder vaguely if glass will make my eyesight worse

I met jesus
in a Powell's bookstore
we were mere ants under
his mighty boots

We took turns
following each other around
he left trails of blue ink
all along the book spines
and I wanted to lick it up

He bought my
coffee and a two day old scone
the only question he asked me
was why I didn't believe in him
when I said I didn't know

He said that
it was okay because
sometimes he didn't
believe in himself
either

I met jesus
at a simple little bookstore
and realized that
he was nothing more
than a man

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

i just never wanted
to be her

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i found god in
you you you

you tell me to
follow my heart
and i almost say
“i love you”

sitting next to you
at a table which holds more
sentimental value than i could
ever possibly understand
i want to reach out
and touch your hand

but i bite my tongue
alcohol thrumming in my veins
almost enough courage to
tell you how i feel

and instead i say
forcing a laugh
“my heart has a ****
sense of direction”

because how do i tell you
that this map i hold
in my shaking hands
always leads back to you

i have already made myself
so very vulnerable where
you and i are concerned
and i don’t want to
scare you away

following my heart
is bad advice
meant to be caring
and that makes this hurt even more
all this pent-up affection
threatening to overflow

but i am holding it back
with clenched fists and
an aching tongue from
all the times i almost
told you how i really feel

and i don’t know how to
make this pining sound poetic
when i am so good at unrequited
love love love
and wanting to hold
you close

there is a steady drip of blood
running down your chin onto the floor,
crouched in front of the
open fridge like an animal

the single light from inside the
big white box illuminates
your hunched back, plays over
each and every vertebrae
that pokes out of
the skin

too thin
too much
always too much

so cold and alone in this kitchen,
fistful of raw hamburger meat to keep
that snarling beast under wraps

your lover slumbers in the next room
so afraid of waking them
when your skeleton twists into a new shape,
this new form replacing the fertile
blood that comes each month

raw meat warmed up by sweaty palms,
a sort of DIY choke-chain, holding
back the sharp teeth and terrible snarl

scrabbling claws to go with an
empty womb that will remain forever barren
you are okay with this,
preferring the purge of smaller
animals from a human stomach than
losing so much life-blood that
your body counters with anemia

your lover knows about this,
sometimes rubs your back through the worst
of it, runs gentle fingers through your
sweat and dirt clogged hair

it is okay, this new normal,
this exchange of one pain for another
an emptiness that will never be filled,
and twin scars of puckered pink

meat to mouth, lips pulling back
to allow for sharper, longer teeth

there is a steady drip of blood
running down your chin onto the floor,
this you will sop up later
with sponges and the promise of a warm
bed where the person that loves you
as a man and as a beast will
open their arms and
tell you to come back to bed

i remember what it
felt like to be
called a liar
that first, and then
second, time

i remember what it
felt like to be 17
and trapped between the
drunken, sweaty bodies
of two older women while
i begged them to stop

i remember what it
felt like to call for help
plead with them that i
was a minor and to
stop touching me
please, stop touching me

i remember what it
felt like to be told
i was making what wasn’t
even my first ****** assault
into something it was not

that i was being dramatic
that i needed to forgive these
two adult women that had
touched me without my permission
without my consent

and i know what it feels like
to ask for help
beg and plead to be heard
and to be so staunchly ignored

having those i thought
i was safe with and around
deny my traumas again
and again

and i couldn’t even let
my ex partner touch me
in so many places
because even thinking
about their gentle hands
being there made my skin
crawl and my eyes water
out of fear

and i know what it feels like
to have my fingers itch
for the blade
exchanging one hurt for another
because, at least,
that’s a bloodshed i can control

and i am so ******* tired
of feeling used up
like part of me is tainted
like something was taken
ragged edges that can’t
be forced back together

and i am begging you
take a tooth
take an eye
just give it back

my ****** autonomy
my safety
my consent

my right to say no and
be listened to, *******

(and i wonder
if i had still been pretending to
be a woman at 17
would i have been listened to?

would that ****** assault
have been less words
and involved so much more
would i be believed?

but, a man can’t be
sexually assaulted, right?
i must have enjoyed it, right?
having two women i thought
i was safe with and around
grinding themselves onto
either side of my body
that was still that of a minor?

i must have wanted it, right?
right?

and the blade in my hand
can only tell me one thing,
that i am still screaming

no, please no
please, you’re hurting me

please stop
please stop
please stop)

There is a steady drip of blood running down your chin onto the floor, crouched in front of the open fridge like an animal. The single light from inside the big white box illuminates your hunched back, plays over each and every vertebrae that pokes out of the skin. Too thin. Too much. So cold and alone in this kitchen, fistful of raw hamburger meat to keep that snarling beast under wraps. Your lover slumbers in the next room. So afraid of waking them when your skeleton twists into a new shape, this new form replacing the fertile blood that comes each month. Raw meat warmed up by sweaty palms, a sort of DIY choke-chain, holding back the sharp teeth and terrible snarl. Scrabbling claws to go with an empty womb that will remain forever barren. You are okay with this, preferring the purge of smaller animals from a human stomach than losing so much life-blood that your body counters with anemia. Your lover knows about this, sometimes rubs your back through the worst of it, runs gentle fingers through your sweat and dirt clogged hair. It is okay, this new normal, this exchange of one pain for another. An emptiness that will never be filled, and twin scars of puckered pink. Meat to mouth, lips pulling back to allow for sharper, longer teeth. There is a steady drip of blood running down your chin onto the floor, this you will sop up later with sponges and the promise of a warm bed where the person that loves you as a man and as a beast will open their arms and tell you to come back to bed.

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

there is a darkness
harbored by my ribs
an ivory cage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

my shoes
vans bought from goodwill
for way less than they would be
in the mall store
with strawberry shoelaces that
are a bit too short
but effectively turn the shoes into
slip-offs
leave pine needles and dirt on the
old gray bus seat where my feet rested
as i read
head back against the window
skull knocking along with the bumps in the road
losing myself in someone else’s fictional life
as i stand to leave
i brush them off with a shaky hand
watching as they land on the floor
and brush the seat once more for good measure
wondering how many other pieces of myself
i have left behind me

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

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

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

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

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

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

i didn’t **** her, you did.

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

The ominous clouds of Winter gathered silently over the unsuspecting children of the mountain
ready to cover the children
in her cloak of cold
bringing the ice crystals
hanging down from the eaves of the houses
beautiful but deadly
like so many things in life
but spring will come again
and Mother Winter
will be on the sidelines
waiting to welcome
Persephone back
with slices of pomegranate
and her long fingers of cold
waiting to glide over the earth
because as we all know
there is a time to live
a time to die
and a time where
the flowers will break through the frozen ground
and the earth will come alive again
and your coffee will be just the right temperature
your socks with only a few holes in them
will still keep your feet warm
and you will be so happy to be here
because the world is a beautiful place
and even
Mother Winter needs you there
needs you here
to keep the seasons turning
and i need you too

stranger with my face,
where have you been?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i could tell you you’re beautiful
hell, i have before
a lot of times
and you still don’t believe me
and i don’t know why

but that’s a lie
i know exactly why
because i used to think
i was ugly too

i was an ugly girl
with glasses and nobody
noticed me until i starved myself
down to a double zero because
they all kept bullying me for being fat

and now i’m an ugly boy
but that’s okay
because even dead trees have the
ability to nurture beautiful
life out of their stumps

so no, i will not tell you
that you are beautiful because that
word is used so much and has so many
different definitions of what it is
and isn’t that who is to say what
it really even means anymore

because to me
you are so much more than a pretty face
and kind words

you are the sunrise after a bad night
where i thought i would die
before the sun rose above the tree line again

you are the rain after
a scorching hot day that makes it too
hot to wear my binder

you are the forgiveness
after i tried to leave
and still you stayed
even when i kept on
trying to go

you are the food
that i am still learning not to
be ashamed about eating and enjoying
because weight is just a ****** social
construct like so many other things

you are the calm voice
and steady hands
holding my own shaking ones
when you bring me back
from my anxiety attacks
and promise me it will be okay

you are there
you are here
you are
you are
so much more than beautiful

you are my friend
my confidant
the love blossoming behind my ribs
the scars that wounds become
the pain and happiness and tears

you are so much more
than you think you are

the last thing i thought
before i fell into that
sleep of the ******
that only 40 pills and over
a thousand mg can provide

i realized that
even before i had started writing
about you
that i wouldn’t be able to write
about you

and that scared me even
more than the thought that i would
never be held again
because to me the written word
is more powerful than any touch

and i never got a chance
to thank you
because i really am thankful
for your not letting me through the pearly gates
even though i smashed my knuckles raw

i smashed my hands until
bone stuck out through my tattered skin
******
and still you did not heed my calls
my pleas to let me in

and when i woke up
later that night
and then again and again
at first i was angry
but now i am thankful

and i am never going to
be able to thank you
and that makes me angry all over again
but mostly sad
an endless cycle

i am the top that is
endlessly spinning around the ghost
of your name on my tongue
i long to be in your presence again
please come back

but really
thank you for not opening the door
but when it really is my time
i hope that you will open up the door wide
and welcome me home with a smile

the moon stayed inside this morning
she must have been
bringing you home

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

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

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

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

i put on my cooking bandana,
the black and white one this time,
blue fabric gone soft and threadbare
from the cycle of wash/rinse/repeat,
and i make pasta

my hands do not shake,
using serrated knife to carve
chicken breast, maybe thigh,
into small chunks

tofu, broccoli, salt go into
a small *** together,
chicken in the oven,
water for spiral pasta boiling

i briefly wish for good crusty bread,
salad greens, maybe a bottle of
cheap, sweet wine, split by two

this love language with nowhere
else to go, no one readily available
to nourish, and i resent, fleetingly,
the day or two of leftovers

belly full of good pasta,
lump in my throat,
loneliness like a promise,
like an old friend

and i do not cry into the sink
full of ***** dishes, hot soapy water
and the music turned up real loud

i don’t cry into the sink
full of ***** dishes,
i don’t
i don’t
i don’t

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

get through the day
just one day at a time
and if that seems like too much
too all at once
all loud and in your face
go by seconds
and then minutes
and then hours
make the in and out of
air in your lungs
a manageable thing

but there is no
clear map when it comes
to survival
because that looks different
for everybody
and a numbered list
could fill all the blank pages
but won’t you think of the trees

and when my depression
grabbed me by the throat
my feet left the ground
as the blueprints left my hands
the plan that i had planned
all neat and laid out
but an addled mind does not
care about that
because it is too busy screaming
and smacking itself against the floor

and sometimes survival looks
like staying up until it is
almost morning again
so you can rock back and forth
in a nest of your blankets
soaked in tears and sweat
sobbing till the line between
heaving breaths and puking
becomes more than blurred
because how do you tell
your family and friends
that you want to die
because it all hurts so much

and sometimes survival looks
like eyes sunken and glazed
shaking hands around a mug
of tea or coffee
with alcohol optional
but not much can mask the
acidic taste of panic
that comes with your heart
continuing to hammer against
your ribs

and sometimes survival
is all smiles
and laughing until you cry
and sloppy kisses
and laying in the middle of a road
on a dead end street with
the person you love most
and your hands are almost
touching and they are so
beautiful and you are alive
and it feels so good
and you are alive
and you are alive
and you are alive
and you are past the survival
and you are LIVING

Stimming/Self-stimulation: most common in individuals on the autism spectrum, but also done by those with anxiety, stimming (stim for short) is the act of engaging in repetitive motions--such as rocking, flapping hands, making noises, and touching or chewing on things--as a way to express emotions or self-soothe.

when anxiety has me ensnared
in its clawed and crooked grip
sunk deep into my bones
my spine becomes a rocking chair
pretzel-ing itself into a shape
that knows how to rid this body
of the gritted teeth and shaking hands
and tears that are a near-constant
and burning promise

and this movement
the motion of moving back and forth
planted firmly on mattress
or couch
or carpet
or hardwood floor
it grounds me and soothes the ache
of a mind in turmoil
in a way that unzipping
my flesh never did

but the motion that is heavily
put into practice while standing
is a noticeable thing
that is too calculated and controlled
to be played off as
intoxication or any other substance
to quite the roiling of my thoughts

and when my little sister
looks at me next to her
with fluttering hands and adding new
indents of my teeth into my bottom lip
and asks me why i am rocking
i do not know how to explain the
motion to her in a way that she will
understand and so i make myself stop
by forcing the movement into my leg

and many summers ago
when i sat on the mattress in
the livingroom of my father’s apartment
that was also my bedroom
and began to rock back and forth
to quell the rising tide of anxiety
from the anger in his eyes and voice
and he snapped at me to
“stop being such an aspie ****”
my only response was to
rock faster and bite back the
tears that threatened to
drown the both of us

i tell you i’ve had a bad day
my depression whacked me
upside the head
and i cried on the bathroom floor

and you share photos
of a quaint forest path
saying that is the real cure for depression
and the pills i take
are a lifelong addiction because
if the pills really did work
then i wouldn’t still be on them
until your fingers ****** bleed

as if my mental illness
is a nasty cold
that requires antibiotics
for about a month
and once i am “better”
i’ll be okay on my own

you treat my pills bottles
like a crutch that makes me weak
like i am a bad person for trying
to live my life worth living
a life which just so happens
to be medicated

and that comes from such
a place of privilege
you and your stupid pictures
of forest paths that have nothing
to do with depression
and anxiety
and screaming hallucinations
that have left me
sobbing on the floor
making myself bleed until
i can tell what’s real again

my mental illness is a chronic thing
even when i am stable
i will never stop being mentally ill
just because i have more good days
than bad doesn’t mean i can cold-turkey
the very things that
keep me functioning
without losing my mind

and when i did try
to go off the meds in high school
you smiled and told me how
brave i was
how strong
how i didn’t need the medication

and days later when i
spent two hours sobbing
until i almost puked
because of the lasagna i had
accidentally burnt to a crisp
you laughed at me
and my tears
and told me to **** it up
to man up
to just be happy

like you telling me to
just be happy
will replace the serotonin my
brain can’t produce enough
of on its own

like you calling me weak
for being on medication
will take away the very real
truth that without
taking those pills every morning
i would have tried to ****
myself again and would
have probably succeeded that time

like you sharing your
pictures of forest paths
and demonstrating your complete
and utter lack of knowledge as to
how medication that isn’t antibiotics works
will suddenly fix
what is broken in my brain

but you take medication
that a doctor prescribes when you
are sick enough for that
to be needed
and nobody calls you weak

and when you break a bone
you get it set in plaster
well i can’t put a cast on
the cracks in my psyche

so i do the next best thing
because if your brain can’t
produce enough serotonin
to keep you wanting to live
all on its own
then store-bought is fine

(and you turning on me
when my mental illness stops
being something i can manage
on my own
says more about you
than it ever will about me)

i will stick to your teeth
am i spicy
or am i sweet
either way i will
bring back memories that
will make you cry

back when it was just
you and your little girl
and there wasn’t enough money
for a beach trip
but you still bought her taffy anyway
and the two of you sat on the
front porch
watching the world move by
and you gently washed the
taffy off your daughter’s face

but when your little girl
became too big to hold
when she squirmed away from your touch
and screamed about the bows
in her hair
you wondered where your baby girl
had gone
and it was hard to love her
because she was a stranger
to you
and to herself

and now your little girl is gone
leaving an arrogant
angry and impatient boy in her place
but ******
he learned it all from watching you

and now this boy
wearing your little girl’s body
eats a bowlful of taffy
trying to fill the black hole
that you left in the middle of his chest

is this boy spicy
or is he sweet
he sticks to your teeth
dries out your throat
makes your stomach hurt
and you resent him
for taking your little girl away

if there is something
more to love than heartache
well, he has yet to find it

maybe, he thinks
when he looks at you
there could be more
but the breaking of a heart
just seems to sell better
doesn’t it?

if this is a curse
then it’s little more than self-inflicted
and it must be
when there are no flowers winding
vines around ribs, forcing out ****** petals
in place of calling your name

food does not turn to ash in his mouth
and water quenches
while alcohol burns just the same
and he distantly wonders if there
isn’t something burning in him, too

does longing burn?
reaching out for a sea captain
that is tethered to the ocean
just as the bard is tethered
to the metaphor of love

and how the sun looks
when it breaks through
gaps in the leaves
and caresses your sleeping face
like he longs to do

but there is no place here
for touches so vulnerable and kind
the shadows long lashes make
on your stubbled cheeks
is not for him to witness

but, oh, he wishes it was
wants to tuck flowers
free of blood and bone
into your long hair
and maybe even hold your hand

for you see,
the bard is a simple man
easily pleased and open
in the love he gives

practically overflowing
an ocean contained within
the body of a man

and won’t you let him fill
your cup with something other
than *** and the persistent ache
of telling yourself
that you’re better off alone?

my first binder came by air mail
from China or Japan
and i thought that it would fit
after having accidentally told my mother i was transgender
and needed something to hide my *******
the look on her face broke my heart
so i backpedaled and said it was for cosplay
my heart too broke that day
because i was afraid that she wouldn’t
love her son as much as she loved her daughter

and it went sour for a while
we yelled instead of talked
i over dosed and self harmed
instead of asking for help
and then i tried to **** myself
in a rather selfish manner
my little sister was right next door
and i didn’t care
because right then
i was packed and ready to go

but who ever resides up there
wouldn’t let me enter the pearly whites
or the burned and blackened coffin doors of hell
which ever would get the biggest laugh
because i assumed that my life was the **** of a joke
that i wouldn’t be told the punch line to
rob told me it was sara’s dad
the same person that kicked him out too
and i believe in that with all of my being
because it’s better than believing in nothing at all

back to my being transgender
which is all my poetry is about
that and cutting and over dosing and the promise of ***
still to be fulfilled
and how much i hate myself
i am a broken record
but i read somewhere to write what you know
and my sadness is all that i know
i accidentally became my depression
and lost myself along the way

i am transgender
which means i was given the gender that my reproductive organs expressed
i identified as a girl for the first sixteen years of my life
then tumblr and family told me what transgender means
and i found that it applied to me
at first i was scared
i didn’t tell my family first
though i did tell my uncle first when i came out as a lesbian
i told some friends first because facing the screen was easier
than facing my family

but it does get better
and you should stick around to see that it really does
because the sun always comes out tomorrow
whether you sleep with your curtains closed or not
the sun always comes out tomorrow
annie agrees with me
and we are going to lose more
and more brother and sisters
but we can stop this
just listen to us
love us
accept us
and for the love of god
don’t ask me what is in my pants

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

..1. .
the fool remakes himself
into a bard

and no one laughs when
he says this out loud
because a crying fool
brings only melancholy and misery

and as for the bard?
well, the bard feels foolish
about so many things

the question still stands
begging for an answer
if loving you
was one of those foolish things

still, the bard would like to think
he understands what falling in love is like
if only from an artistic standpoint
like the poet to the muse

after all, hearts can’t be reasoned with
and this bard has made quite
a career out of being maudlin

welcomes fits of melancholy with open arms
knowing that a good ballad
a misguided declaration of love
is impossible to write without
have a good cry while doing it

2.
and sometimes there is
so much hurt in those tears
that if feels like anger
but the bard does not know
who it is directed at

and does that really matter?
for, while the anger of a poet
runs deeper than blood and bone
the love of a poet is
an infinite thing

maybe not a thing to say aloud
though, what is a bard without
the sweetness of his voice?
fingers tenderly plucking
at his own heartstrings
pulled taut again and again

nothing as poetic as that will
eventually break
even if the bard tries his
damndest to shatter knuckles
against his growing loneliness

because, sometimes, the truth
is saying that you’ve made him
cry and meaning it
when he confesses to missing
being no more than a fool

what does a fool know of love?
of heartbreak
of empty bottles
and emptier promises

the fool knows nothing at all
and the bard would like that back,
so tired of collecting the coins
made from making a broken heart
sound like such a beautiful thing

the funny thing is
when my mom was together with my dad
--like as a thing and he would
run to the pay phone across the street from where
he lived whenever his pager went off that
she was calling him--
his dad asked her is she was going to
give him a grandson
and my mom
being the person that she is
told me that she laughed and said maybe

the funny thing is
when i was born and the midwife
announced that i was a girl
my nan who had mistook my umbilical cord
for a ***** leaned over and asked
the midwife if they were sure

the funny thing is
my grandfather’s mother
she always thought that i was a boy
and yes i know that she had alzheimers
and was not all there
but now i feel like she was able to
see through my dresses and long hair
to the boy that i would one day be

the funny thing is
i was often mistaken for a boy as a child
and when that happened there was always
a little burst of warmth because yes
i was a boy
i looked like a boy
i felt like a boy
but no no no
silly girl they all would say

the funny thing is
when i first met my father’s father
my grandfather if you will
i was a lesbian
and in texas that isn’t a widely accepted thing
and i was told a lot during my two week visit
that i just hadn’t found the right man yet
and so now that i am a man
i wonder what they would tell me now

the funny thing is
i don’t have bottom dysphoria
have a ****** does not bother me
i like being able to comfortably ride a bike
and read ****** novels in public
without it being obvious that that is
what i am doing

the funny thing is
my grandfather’s mother
who we all called papa lucy
died before i realized that i wasn’t a girl
i had that terrifying revelation at seven
and though my memory is foggy
through much of my childhood
she passed a year or two prior to that
and no i do not mean it is funny that
she died because that is terrible and i loved
her with all my heart
but it is funny that she saw who it would take
me nine years to be
and i didn’t get to reintroduce myself to her
and tell her she was right

the funny thing is
now that i am a boy
i am near-constantly misgendered
and it seems that no amount of slouching
or wearing a binder under it feels like my
ribs are cracking with every breath
and wearing pronoun buttons on my sweatshirt
and bright rainbow beanie
is enough to make people see otherwise

but ****** i am a boy
and my nan thought i was a boy
and my papa lucy knew i was a boy
and i used to get mistaken for a boy
before i grew hips and ****
and despite all those things i am still
a boy and i always have been and i always
will be and the really not funny thing about that is that
people seem so eager to tell me i am wrong
and try to force me back into the box of
daughter and woman and mother and sister
and no i will not be those things
and it is not my fault that i live in this world
where they do not know what
a body other than theirs means and how terrifying it is
to realize you are not the girl you were raised as at such a
young age you do not have words to describe how you feel
and they do not know
and they will not know
until they shut their mouths and open their minds

so please do
before any more of my transgender brothers and sisters
have to die for your ignorance and hate and fear
because there is nothing funny about that

at first there was a sea captain
and he could have been lonely
but, surrounded by the great
expanse of the ocean
is one ever really alone?

and then, there was a bard
arguably more of an orator
(though a bard just the same)
for he carried no instrument,
no weapon but his words

and a pretty little dagger
that the captain gave him
tucked into his boot

it does not matter how long
the bard took to get to the captain
all that matters is he
is there now

so bright with all his love
the bard tucks daisies and
dandelions into the captain’s
long and windswept hair

and if the captain’s teeth are
a little crooked and the
bard has scars on wrist
and arm and chest
well, neither of them minds

because the bard will still
make the captain breakfast
and the captain will still
share his flask of ***

and when the captain asks,
voice rough with late nights
and years of salty ocean brine,
“is this a love story?”

the bard will only laugh,
voice free of heartbreak,
knowing the captain will
always belong more to the
ocean than he ever could
to him, and say,
“nay, my captain. it is naught
but a jaunty little tune”

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

i am
--am i?--
yeah, i think i am

drunk drunk drunk
and signing myself up for
selective service so i
will be able to access my financial
aid and not have to cough up
almost $2,000 for one term
that me and my bank account
just really do not have, ya know?

and that little dropdown menu
well it doesn’t offer the option of:
“i am being forced to sign up for this
so i can afford college”
because i guess that sounds less
appealing than my being recruited
during lunch while i watched my fellow
(cis) male students dislocate their shoulders
doing pull ups so the older boys in uniform
would be proud of them and
maybe even give them a
nice little lanyard

because after over $100 to get
the right name and gender marker
on my id and $60 to get a new
birth certificate
i’m male enough for the government
to want to make into cannon fodder
but i’m still not male enough to
use the men’s room without the
threat of being verbally harassed
or physically assaulted

and that just makes me so angry
because here’s “bone-spurs donnie”
a known draft dodger of
at least 5 times who had the money
to pay off any doctor he wanted
trying his hardest to ban trans
people from enlisting
to fight in a war backed by a country
that wants them dead

yet that little M on my id
that i paid so much for
makes me eligible to be blown
to bits or come back to
a country that doesn’t want me anymore
with my brains scrambled from
shell shock and ptsd

because this country is willing
to pretty much force-feed young men
into the bottomless belly of the
war machine

always stoking the fires of the
military industrial complex with
money and unscarred flesh
and so much lies
and so much fear mongering

and i am just so tired
of having to fill in that
little bubble with my ballpoint
pen and a click of the mouse
pledging what could easily be the
rest of my life to being
riddled with bullets
miles away from home

just so i can grab that
financial aid
that perpetual carrot being dangled
in front of my oh so
transgender and queer nose
so i can afford an education
and not become another statistic

another person that the
united states of amerikkka
has failed

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

my body was never a sacred thing
less of a small church out in
the middle of the desert
and more of a building
burned out from the inside
and ravaged by the
unforgiving sands of time

my body was this shell
that i was forced into
nobody asking if the label
that was slapped onto it
was the one that fit

and i broke my nails
on the walls
trying to claw my way out
never able to cut deep enough
to find what it was that
made me hate myself

spending years grasping
for breath
is hard to explain
but my skin bears
the scars of
trying to find the real me

my body was never
meant to be a temple
and i certainly didn’t
ever treat it like one
spending all my time
trying to get out
of what didn’t fit

i was not born into
a body that
felt like what
a home should
be

and it took me years
of building this body
from the ground up
rounding off the sharp edges
with careful touches
and so many apologies

this body of mine
was never meant to
be a church
or a burned out husk
waiting to be forgotten

my body is a worn
pair of boots
socks with holes in the heel
that i can’t bear to part with
a smile after the tears
crooked teeth and all

i built my body back up
into something that i
could live in
without wanting to
needing to
tear it apart

this has taken me years
and i am so tired
but more than that
i am finally
finally
finally
home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

my friend tells me that
i look younger
and clarifies that it’s
like i’m more at ease
not so tense anymore

i almost say
“i love you”
because in that moment
my heart is so full of
love it could burst

but instead i make a
joke about my age
to hide that i am
so close to weeping
right then because of
how right they are

and i did weep
on that day
sitting on a friends bed
with my chest wrapped
in bandages and my
head in my hands

i wept since it
was finally over
so many years of
breaking my knuckles against
the cage of the gender
some doctor assigned
me at birth

and my friend was right
with what they said
i do feel younger
less like 21 going on 40
and more like
coming home

after being away
for just too long

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 am not a liar
I'm just a writer
but my imagination
my mind
is a rabid and
hungry beast
it eats everything
devours it whole
but it only spits one
thing out
and that is a lie
the lie is
"I am fine"

there are three words
on the tip of your tongue
waiting to be grouped into
whatever you want them to be
and they can mean anything
they can heal
they can maim
they can ****
because words scar just like knives

“i love you”
and god did you ever
his eyes that shone with kindness and light
her lips that were always so soft
the first time you kissed a boy
and you held her hand in the mall
not caring who saw you
you have so much love to give
and that makes the past tense
hurt even more

“i’m right here”
and you were
and so were they
when the nightmares got really bad
so bad that they bled over into the day
and seeing great black wings bursting out of
someone's back
sends you reaching out for a hand to hold
something to ground you
because it’s not real
and you’re not crazy

“i need you”
and you always have been selfish
not wanting to be in a world where they
aren’t a text message, a call, or a letter away
because they’ve always been there
even when you hardly were yourself
and you need them
you do
and you probably always will
and that is not a bad thing

“i’m so sorry”
and those three words
are said with tears in your eyes
snot dripping from your nose
and it does not matter why
you are saying sorry
be it because of self-infliction
or otherwise
because you’ve hurt them
but you just don’t want them to go

“please don’t go”
and these words are said
in so many contexts and settings
like reaching out from the bed
and grabbing onto them
because sleeping alone is too quiet
or you run after them
leaving food and drinks to cool
because what good is food
and sleep and drink
if you’ve gotta go it alone

“i love you”
and aren’t those the most
important words that you will ever say
to her and him and them
because they will linger
in the best and worst ways
through years and cities and states
they never go away
because baring your heart and soul
to another person
another being
like that is both the greatest sacrifice
and greatest thing you will ever do

“you’ll be okay”
and a parting gift for you
dear reader and viewer of this work
because even though those three
words do sound cliche
they are the most true things
that have ever been spoken
because you will heal
wounds will scar over
sleepless nights will stop adding up
and you will be so happy to be alive
you’ll be okay
i know it

charlie bradbury
did you know that the
only time i said i love you
to someone
since mom died
was in a flashback
to the memory of my mother
but that’s because she needed to
hear it
that dad still loved her
and so did i
i loved her so **** much
i wanted to make her proud
i wanted
i don’t know
i guess i wanted to watch her
and dad grow old together
but us hunters don’t get
to make wishes like that
unless we are willing to sell
our souls
and i probably would have
just to have her back
to see dad smile again
so sammy would know what it
was like to have a real family
instead of an alcoholic ******* of a father
and an emotionally stunted
self-destructive mess of a brother

but even
if they all knew my intentions
behind the deal
raising the dead has never been
a good idea
i know that for a fact
and ten years would never be
enough to make up for
decades of not knowing the
soothing touch of a mother’s hand

then you
waltzed into our lives
saved our *****
and as a thank you
we broke your arm
and not for the first time
but you just kept on forgiving me
i wanted to ask why
because i had done you more
harm than good
but then
when you just kept on saying it
through the blood and broken bones and pain
i knew that you weren’t just forgiving me
for hurting you
you were forgiving me for blaming everything
on myself
for not being strong enough to carry
the whole world
for not being able to save
every person

but charlie
i never wanted a little sister
i didn’t need another family member
another person
that i loved with all of my heart
that i would die for
i just couldn’t let you down
that would have killed me

but you
just kept on picking me
up and dusting me off
telling me to keep going
you helped me to believe in myself
and i believed in you too
i loved you
to the point where it broke my heart
because i knew that i couldn’t keep you safe
but you’re not a little kid anymore
you can protect yourself
and i know that
but it’s always nice to have
a helping hand now and then
and that’s what you were for me
that’s what you always will be

“i love you”
“i know”

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

I have felt you for years
since the tender age of seven
before the onslaught of puberty
you nestled up under my ribs
closer and closer to my heart
you snaked your fat little fingers
up and into and out and around
the tender caricature of life
and when I was cut
it is you that seeped out
but no please don't think that
I was trying to get rid of you
I wanted to be closer to you
to hold you in my arms
for I was the only one that could
heed and hear your childish cries
for years I could feel you
curling around my brain stem
seeping into my addled brain
you were the cough medicine that
soothed not only my throat but
also the depths of my being
and I couldn't wait to meet you
I died so that you could live
this is not something to be sad
or to place blame about
because I saw you and the way
that life surged through you
how your toes curled and your fingers
closed around the edges of new life
I saw how you fought
to keep your eyes open
and I am sorry if I scared you
I just wanted to say goodbye to
my dear family and friends
but they couldn't hear me
and you felt that pain as well
but ****** Priestly I gave you
a second chance at life
so live it to the fullest
I will be watching over you
you're gonna do great kiddo
Love, Sarla

“you’re a horrible person for not voting”
i know
“it’s a chance for your voice to be heard”
my voice isn’t heard already
so i don’t see the point
and you know perfectly well
what i mean
when i say that

my voice hasn’t been heard
for years
and years
a long **** time
my voice sounds foreign to my own ears
when it is caught in the echo
of someone else’s

but to your government
and your president
i am invisible
i do not exist
i don’t even have a shadow

my people are murdered
and all they get is a hashtag
my people **** themselves
and all they get is a hashtag
all i will get is a hashtag
years and years of life
reduced down to one
#restinpeace

“have you masturbated yet”
no i haven’t
“do you even know how to”
yes i understand the mechanics of it
you put a couple of fingers in and
wiggle them around

“why haven’t you masturbated yet”
i lied when i told you that there was
a short answer to this
either answer involves yelling
and screaming so loud
that a fire blossoms
in the middle of my chest
and my voice cracks
and people can hear me on the
other side of the restaurant

this is not a quiet answer
it is not a quick one
it is the pull of a trigger
right into who i am
and it is a cruel
slash at my insecurity

have you ever heard of
****** autonomy
or maybe personal space
questions that
a grown man
an elderly man
should never ask a teenager
let alone a transgender teenager

and the age gap
42 years
a year younger than my mother
doesn’t make this a friendly thing
it makes you a pervert

(but i will answer this again
so more people than you
can look at me like i am
even more of a freak
than they originally thought

i do not *******
because looking at myself naked
even before getting into the shower
when i brush my teeth
and my ******* swing
like twin pendulums
over the basin of the sink
i want to cut it all off

and no
at this point
i do not care if i bleed to death
i have been bleeding for years
since that first person asked me
if i was a girl or a boy

and no
you do not understand
because you were not born
in the wrong body
you have the hanging anatomy
between your hairy thighs
and the biologically male on
your birth certificate
as proof of that

there are no
scars on your arms
or on your chest

parts of you are not going to
be cut off
and scooped out
so people will see you as
and address you as
male

so do not pretend that
you understand
because you do not
and you do not try to)