Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sam Dec 2014
I was a little girl yesterday morning,
With a flash of red hair and a gap-toothed grin
Laughing and playing on the swing at my favorite park.
I was a confused pre-teen that afternoon,
Scraping her knees on jagged insults
Holding in tears for secret bathroom visits
Where she would push her fingers
Into her throat and
Pray on her knees that her lunch would
Reappear like a magic trick.
I was a scared teenager by evening,
Kissing girls and running away from
The demons in my head with voices
That sounded like my mother’s.
By midnight I was on the floor shaking,
Back to twenty, back to who I am now
Wishing those past me’s would understand that I needed
Something more.
Yet this morning I sat up in my bed and greeted the sun with a
Flash of red hair and a close-gapped grin
And I am here now,
Here remembering, being present and
Knowing who I was
Ten years ago twelve years ago fifteen years ago five minutes ago
Is exactly who I needed to be,
Doing exactly what I needed to do.
Scraping my knees and elbows
And pushing my finger down my throat
And feeling ugly all the time,
That’s not what I needed but it’s
Who I was Who I couldn’t stop being because I
Didn’t know how. In my mind,
I am not
That little girl, that preteen, that teenager I am me.
I am
Bumping and bruising and
Breaking, sometimes, along the way but this
Is where I stand.
And those past selves stand
Hand-in-hand somewhere along
The equator of my brain
Like paper dolls unfolded
Through my history.
Sam Dec 2014
My body is a roadmap
Dotted with state lines and stretch marks and red arrows pointing to You Are Here.
There are scars like flags crossing my arms claiming gripping holding fast to this
Earth this life
Highways that lead nowhere
Train tracks that click clack against my ribcage
Cars that rumble in my brain.
Exhaust fumes fogging thoughts.
My body wears these hills on my chest like rugged territory unstaked unstated these weight plateaus like failure flatlining against the horizon.
My body is untraveled unfolded uncreased
These eyes like lakes see depth from new perspective dipping fresh into cool clear vision.
These legs like rivers cut through worlds rushing hard and fast
This head like boulder
steady and stoic even with anxiety
quaking through my core.
My body is a roadmap.
I seek only adventures within.
Cant sleep. Surprise. Body comparison. WIP: not sure about ending
Sam Nov 2014
Cover this body with layers upon layers,
Each one hiding the secrets I don't want
To tell. They yell my ***, Scream it out
Shout it and others follow suit.
Four letter words may make violence but
S-H-E causes earthquakes inside me.
My curves curse me to wear my **
Chromosomes like neon paint
Warning sign: This person was born
Female. Born into an imaginary category,
Forced to conform. My mind
Is at war with the mirror eyes staring back
Those little details sticking out
Highlight them, cutandpaste to another
Maybe this bandage will keep me safe from
The gender police maybe people will be
Confused and not ask Maybe they will ask
For once and not assume.
Maybe I'll lose enough oxygen that it won't
Matter is all I am, atoms twisted together in
Disarray and how can you call that Anything but what it is.
I defy this binary, refuse to walk the
PinkorBlue tightrope.
Let me fall and land in purple.
Let me live in the inbetween.
Thoughts about being genderqueer
Sam Nov 2014
I wonder if you decided twenty years ago
That this was the life you wanted.
If heartbreaker was tattooed into your
DNA ink flowing mixing with blood if this
Was what you wanted your legacy to be:
Fingers ghosting down girls' throats
Lips planting promises into their brains
Where your promise is a distraction
Where you start to lose traction on
Everything. But her.
How long do you intend to break them Down while you wait for her to
Say something that matters to you.
There is a war path where you step
And it is littered with crushed beer cans,
Cigarette butts, hand grenades and
Is this your legacy?
It precedes you.
I should have known when we first met
That your smoke signalled fire
That you would burn everything to the
Ground. No village is safe around this
But go ahead, because this means nothing
To you.
With your fingers inside another girl
If you close your eyes, she'll feel the same
As the girl who's ******* with your mind.
And if they taste like cheap ***** and
Regret, if their skin leaves traces in your
Sheets, if their feelings leave traces in your
Brain, well, that's just a consequence of
The no-strings theory.
I'm sorry I'm so bitter because you're
Always in my thoughts and you don't have
ESP so you can't know this and I can't tell
You. I'm sorry I'm so bitter because you
****** our friend in more ways than one.
I'm sorry I'm so bitter because it
Wasn't me.
I would hate myself for being another
Tongue you wish was hers,
But the closest I can get to you is through
The heat of your skin, and I want to know
How to twist you inside out.
So I'm sorry this is messy and confusing and emotional but
I read what she wrote and
Threw up my heart. You did this.
You'll keep doing this.
I can't stop wanting what I'll never have.

Happy ******* birthday.
Feelings or whatever
Sam Oct 2014
Two people walk into a bar:

A woman, early twenties, permed-up, puffed-out hair

Horn-rimmed glasses thicker than coke bottle bottoms

Fresh out the ivory tower eager to learn eager to become who she needs to be

Parlez-vous français? She does,

Her tongue speeding over conjugated verbs

Flying effortlessly through another language, she is ready

To move to Paris, la ville de l’amour,

The City of Lights, the City of Untold Possibilities

She is ready, she thinks,

To fall in love.

A man, earlier twenties, close-cropped, clean-shaven hair

Sea-green eyes and 20/20 vision-placid ocean

Fresh out Basic Training eager to act eager to become who he needs to be

Do you read me, Sir? He does,

His spine rigid from standing straight and tall,

Hand crooked at his forehead in an involuntary salute, he is ready

To build fighter jets with his oil-stained hands

To build a life for himself with his carpenter’s fingers

To build a house on the stability he thrives in

He is ready, he thinks,

To let someone in.

Two people walk into a bar:

A man, an Army graduate, an old soul

A woman, a College graduate, a kind soul

Guitar riffs floating from the jukebox drift through the air,

Playing the background music for newfoundlove story.

Two people walk into a bar:

Friends introduce them to each other,

She thinks, Those green eyes sparkle with the sun freckling his cheeks

Reddening his hair.
She thinks, Maybe he’s the one.

He thinks, That perm really works for her frames her face what a pretty smile.

He thinks, Maybe she’s the one.

Two people walk into a bar:

Sit down, have a drink,

Share some laughs, funny stories,

Break the ice with awkward questions,

Eat some food, too shy to share it

Get some drinks, guzzle liquid courage,

Dance to the jukebox buzz

Look a little silly but pretend they don’t care.

They don’t care.

Two people walk into a bar:

Maybe they leave hand-in-hand,

Maybe they hug goodbye at the door.

Maybe they think about each other and call right away.

Maybe they set up more dates, more bar trips, more laughs.

Maybe they already know that they are in love.

Two people walk into a bar:

Their history writes its own punchline.
This is a poem about my parents' first meeting, inspired by the CAMP prompt. They are one of the first examples I have of what true love looks like, so this is for them. The spacing is weird, so I'll work on that in a bit.
Sam Oct 2014
12:30 AM.
I am a ghost drifting through the midnight-quiet,
haunting flower beds and grasses
Undisturbed in their slumber. My body floats
Through my neighborhood, stealing the
Secrets of the dark.

1 AM.
Ghoulish eyes peer out from Mrs. Butler’s bushes and
Become miniature 3-eyed deer with antlers sharpened to
Daggers. They roam about her dewy lawn,
Feasting on worms and blinking,
Slowly, one eye at a time.

3:30 AM
Arrives, and they return to their hideaway home,
Disappearing with one final b l i n k
Into the rhododendrons.

5 AM.
I never knew that morning tasted like
Strawberries and honeysuckle and smelled
Like freshly-cut-grass-mixed-with-bonfire-smoke.
My Tongue is heavy with its sickly-sharp odor
And my ears buzz from the tangy sweetness.

7 AM.
Corporeal reality coats my body, connecting my mind
to my soul, my
Soles to the soil and I am incarnate, whole,
A body amid the sunlit specters surrounding me.

9 AM.
A mumbo-jumbo grin slides onto my face,
Synthetic in every aspect of the word,
My mouth is cotton-dry as I slink into the bogusness of a weary day.

10 AM.
Crowds of people smoosh together, their words co-mingling
And I crash my bike into strung-together sentences,
Scraping my knees on the voracity of barbed words.

11. “She’s a constant damsel-in-distress, but she doesn’t work in a strip joint!” I step around the shards of her fallen tiara as I climb the ivory-tower’s steps.
12. My wide eyes view futility as a type of texture, and I imagine it feels like sandpaper. My first class feels like sandpaper-futile in this struggle to stay awake.
13. Bicycling to la clase de Español se siente como moviéndose a través de melaza.
Mis pies cansados empujar los pedales pero I can’t escape the quicksand around me.
14. Reading the thoughts of my classmates helps to pass the time, and
I can see clearer through closed-eyelids than open eyes.
15. Red walks among their peers, watching for passing dogs and smiling at them. Red is
Hyperaware of people they knew from past school and recalls names and faces in seconds. Red is
A zombie trudging on shaky legs, lumbering down the bricked path.
16. Murky sunlight streams through tired clouds and blinking is a visceral kind of pain.
17. My poetry stews in my brain, rotting and fermenting until it becomes a fine wine.
18. Trees wish me good luck, waving their branches affirmatively as I pass by. Their comforting
Footsteps warm my soul.
19. Darkness steals the sun’s warmth but I’ve hours more to be awake.
20. I am a ghost floating through this sea of people. I drift through them, haunting their conversations
Haunting my own quiet mind.
UPDATE: Newly edited, but still not quite where I want it to be.
Still WIP but getting there
Sam Oct 2014
There are days when my body doesn't
Support me doesn't
Hold me close and
Protect me.
These are the days that I am a clay figure
Molded by clumsy hands shaped
With curves where there should be flat
Planes where I exist to create a mask a
Persona of who I am who I want to be.
These are the days when I want to avoid
My reflection yet check it to make sure it
Matches what I want to see.
These are the days that my reflection Never matches what I want to see where
My insides twist in disgust and I want to
Crawl inside myself and hide from the
World. These are the days when I wake up
Two hours early to prepare to layer first Binder then undershirt then shirt then Shirt then sweatshirt then jacket because
The bulk makes my body a secret.
These are the days when my body is a
Secret that I never want to reveal when
My steps are unsure and my face is set to
These are the days that I watch guys and
Imitate them stealing their walks hoping
I'll steal their identities so I don't have to
Live in my own.
These are the days that my heart fissures
When I am called "her" when a pronoun
Becomes an insult and
These are the days that I wish my mind
Wasn't so dead-set against my happiness
That I could just feel "girl" that I could
Just pretend it away.
But these
Are the days that I fight hardest to be who I
Am and fight to educate others and
Imagine a day when I won't be misgendered or gendered at all.
Stuff about being nonbinary.
Next page