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Lenore Lux Feb 2015
I think sometimes, about what it means to be transgender. I probe and probe for answers, because as the possibility for a new age of enlightenment and safety increases, the others want to know. I’ve come up with many answers, but I can hold to none. I don’t deserve to paint the definition of a culture with the limited experiences I’ve had. I don’t see myself in the transgender identified people allowed on television. I don’t see myself in the transgender identified people making news feeds and giving high profile interviews. And as my nation’s exposure to our culture increases, likely will their curiosity. Am I transgender? Do I have the right? I’ve heard doctors, psychiatrists, may refuse transgender patients access to hormone therapy based on how dedicated or convincing their portrayal of their identified gender. If you want to be a man or woman, you’ll have to look like the women and men on TV. If you want to be transgender, you’ll have to look like the trans identified people on TV. Every single one of us who has an active role as either participant or observer in our society is prey to the crisis of validity. Am I pretty enough? Am I strong enough? Am I brave enough? Mom enough? Dad enough? Competitive enough? Successful enough? Rich enough? **** enough? Pious enough? It never ends. We’re, as a nation of people, being crushed and compartmentalized by this ever present lens, looming over us, exploiting our weaknesses and fears so it may grow wider, and support itself as it follows us, seemingly forever into the future. And one of the worst fears this camera of existential torment exploits, in most of us every day, is, “Do I have a reflection?” “What does it look like?” “Do I look like me?” What does it mean to be transgender? I can’t get away from that question. But I don’t have an answer. There are varying degrees of anguish, depression, panic, anxiety, and other wonderful emotional states that creep up on you and breathe down your neck nearly every waking day. Absolute contempt for the lie of a life you’ve lived till now, and contempt for the fragments still stuck to you, in memories, attached to your body and mind. Fear of those in your own community who would purposefully humiliate, invalidate, or attack you, choosing their own universal moral code over the innate urge and capacity to support the health and continued well being of another human. A ******* neighbor. A ******* pupil. A ******* employee. A ******* sister, brother, son, daughter, mother, father, cousin, ******* blood. What is being transgender like? By my experiences, it’s just like being anyone else in the country. But with a lot more fear, death, exclusion and medication.
Lenore Lux Jan 2015
I hide mostly in confines now.
Not fearing death, but life.
Lone in the light I can manage from matches
and torches, paranoid and anxious.
Topside today, no home tomorrow.
Still I rise to see the sun.
Yank the chain tether to test for rust.
Wander into the wastes in search,
mostly of water, and then for trust.
It's simple enough with a gun.
I look East, but think twice and
travel to the West for the wind of peace.
In old buildings close to my bed and blankets,
I find a young boy with his sister, and while
she's older and dressed in hardened leather,
the clasp on her hip holster's shut tight.
They're looking for sustenance. I watch with
my eyes just over the window sill
as the two cling to each other
through the rooms.

They find nothing. Turning to what's left in their packs.
Cans of tuna. Pork and beans. Fumbling with
knives to stab through the shell.
Is it a good day to die?
I wonder,
thinking of the can opener
I found yesterday.
Lenore Lux Jan 2015
There's so much about the way leaves look.
Under light.
Wet with rain.
I seize up.
Of service.
Rush into.
My safe space.
For all I've hardened is just a front.
Lenore Lux Jan 2015
The world around me casts its shadows over me.

Wanting it to be aware, the blemish on ***** flesh.

The wrench in the cogs.

Wrong. Displaced. Alien.

I am a danger in this place. All but eyes shrouded.

Staring longingly from the dark.

Knowing you see me.

Painted by numbers. With hate. With shame.

With strange curiosity of the other.

With understandable fear of loss.

Fear of alteration. The change of state.

I rumble alone, a calling out. Indistinct and alluring.

These words I speak and words I write, are for me.

I cannot be the me you see. This glass reflecting

me as a monster is weak when confronted.

In alleyways, with baseball bats. With knives.

Snide looks and textbook descriptions. Hurt,

maybe dead.


I still cannot be what you want me to be.

Sin at the edges. Revolution at the walls.

Only so long shall pass before we breathe

war cry deeply in our lungs.

And let it out.
Lenore Lux Jan 2015
Ohhh, Jokes,
I remember you, I remember hurt I should forget
but still and again it remains that I'm haunted

(deep breath)
(switch the needle)

...... ...... ......
Lenore Lux Jan 2015
God, electricity has never been so painful
as when it manifests in blue cords holding up your core
and doubled over the rail finding any way
to stay away from home,
it hits your **** like the arctic wind
before it shreds and embeds in your soul
Will. I ever. Be touched like I touch, or will I
shuffle through my time alive at Water Avenue?
Will. I ever. Be held as close as I hold, or will I
wander, wistful?

Fallout. Inbound. Reciprocation comes
arriving on highways that transport heavy arms
and ***** bombs. Take me where pavement
is miles away. Take me on.
Lenore Lux Jan 2015
Do you see my red as your words come out?

(I really don’t hope that you do, but I really hope you do)

Do you see the smile while I reach presence?

(I really don’t hope that you do, but I really hope that you do.)

Do you catch my chest double when in front of you breathing?


I really don’t hope that you do, but I really hope that you do

feel the way I find lightness in your sentences while you

just speak about the day.

Do you feel my leg with conscious intent?

(I really hope you do but I know you wouldn’t mean that)

Do you touch me when you laugh for reason?

(I really hope you do, but I know you wouldn’t mean that, would you.)

Do your eyes remind me of mine or is love deceiving

(      me      ??      )

I really hope they do, but I know you wouldn’t mean that.

While I walk away

While I lie my head

While I wear - ily wake

(I find)

to find your face a hologram
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