I like it here in your point of view.
My eyes are strained and
it smells like cigarette and rose in here.
Early morning,
waving for a cab
my skin is lit in streetlights.
Never sure what you find beautiful;
never know what you want.
Writer buying coffee at dawn;
her hair is a chaos in the air.
It's so cold;
her nose is the coldest —
That's all I am at the moment.
Not sad.
Not particularly happy.
"Wonder what it's like to date you."
"What did you imagine?"
Tucking my hair behind my ear,
I feel anxiety swirling in my stomach.
Smiles.
White noise.
You're blinking, looking away
and at me.
Why do everything I write
sound like a lovesong?
Do you like it here in my point of view?

Or: On How To Let Go

1. The first time your grandmother cries
and says you died along with your grandfather,
smile.
You never liked her much anyways,
so being dead to her- while not ideal-
isn't the worst way to go.
2. Remember that time you went shopping
for your first pair of cargo shorts
and the same grandmother was RIGHT QUICK to point out
to the cashier that you are very much a girl
all soft curves and short limbs
and regrets and quiet voices
and you gotta try not to smack her.
3. Remember when a Wal Mart worker said,
"Good morning, Sir"
and again, that same grandmother
was right quick to point out
that I was very much a lady,
that I was petite and passive
and everything she wanted me to be
4. Just... Hide it.
Because while they may say they're okay with it
you still see the sideways glances
and the glares, and the stares,
and the cries of, "How the hell do you expect to be a boy
if you're wearing that skirt!"
5. Try your best to explain it to every person
that you'll ever bring home
to meet this family.
Say... "Sometimes, I kind of feel
a little bit like a boy."
Underplay it.
Severely.
Don't tell them that some days
you wake up crying and clutching at your chest
wishing it was gone
that some days death sounds more preferable
than living in this body
Don't tell them that it's way deeper
than "sometimes" and "kind of"
that it's a constant nagging fear
6. Sit down at Christmas dinners in a dress.
Be aware that you're only making things
harder on yourself.
6. Sit down at Christmas dinners in a suit and tie.
Be aware that you're only making things
harder on yourself.
7. Their insistence that they can't even try
to call you their nephew,
or their grandson,
cause it would be too ******* them
8. My transition is too ******* them
5. I wake up some mornings
willing to do anything I can to switch bodies
with my best friend: a trans woman
who hates her body as much as I hate mine
that's something we have in common.
I'd give anything to have her body,
she'd give anything to have mine
9. Recognise that your family
isn't gonna understand.
10. Deal with it the only way you know how:
every self-destructive tendency
you've clung to all these years
quickly becoming your other best friends
6. Realise that feeling this way
is making things harder on you.
11. Realise that it's okay
to break up with your regrets
and though they'll cling to your shirt
and drop to their knees
and beg beg beg beg for you back
Do not take them back.
12. Realise that you are so much more.
That you... Are valid,
despite everyone who calls you
the name of a person
you don't even recognise anymore
realise that you are valid
despite everyone who says you're not
cause when you think you're not,
when you're pressing yourself into mattresses
and obsessively working out
and holding back tears looking at all the clothes
you wish you could look good in,
that's.... well, that's when you need it most.
0. Let go of the fact that your family
calls you the name of a person you don't recognise anymore
because one day, you're gonna show up for Christmas dinner
and they're not gonna recognise you.
And that's one of the most comforting feelings
in the world.

i imagine little pieces of you
clinging to my shirt,
like dandelion seeds,
when you kiss me.

but you are much, much more than a mere ****.
you're a vivid, radiant flower in a garden of wilting stems.

and every time you smile at me
i swear,
something in me grows again.

perhaps you're the sunshine
that nourishes my growth.
perhaps you're the rain
that makes my cloudy days worthwhile.
and more than that,
you're the earth that keeps me here.
you're the dandelion that grows in my garden.

I went outside and looked at the moon
Saw its cold shimmer in the night
The far far away moon
The full moon
All its glory
taking up the sky
And all I could think of
Was you

I think I
need to accept
that we're
not meant for
"facebook official"

We were hidden
behind locked
doors, whispers
in ears, hidden
under covers
with a substance
we could blame
our actions on.

We weren't meant
to hang on each other
in front of people who
could tell.
I'm good at keeping
secrets, I promise.
But I've never fallen
In love with one.

I don't think you intended
that to happen.
I don't think you
intended to fall
in love with it
either.

But your legs have
always been
ready to run.
So when it
became clear
that we could
happen.
That the curtain
would be pulled,
you wanted no part
of it.

And I think I
need to accept
that we weren't
meant to be
known.

Oh, darling!
But your demons
match with mine.

/pc

incompetent.
the music in front of me blurred slightly
and my fingers curled above the piano keys.
the room filled with sounds like a rainbow after the rain.
i became that rain in the room,
and wondered what kind of light
should shine through my clouds,
if any.

This is my story.
My first poem in months
and suddenly, I'm stuck.
I've been lying in bed for so long
that I lost my voice,
I think I wrote so many words
for my ex-boyfriend
that I have none left for myself.
My life is a whirlwind of passing daydreams
and photographs
and empty cigarette packs
and cold cups of coffee
and pieces of other peoples' poems...
Pieces of my own poems
that I barely remember writing.
I spend my time trying to ignore
the sighs of discontent
ini the back of my mind,
trying to provide a way to relate
to the people I know
But it's hard when I can barely relate to myself.
I am a work in progress.
When it comes to food
less is no longer more,
and the scars that litter me are fading fast
but I'm standing still
While the world moves around me.
Inhaling the toxicity
and exhaling the stardust of my peers,
surrounded by memories
locking me in place,
This is my story.
It's a written and re-written masterpiece
that I have no record of
because I gave up on journalling a while ago,
because my life isn't necessarily one
I'd sit with a glass of Moscato
and write about at the end of the day.
It's full of torn pages,
crossed out sentences,
and smudged words;
but I guess these things come of a story unfinished,
of a work in progress.