"casseroles" poems
Last night I
had a dream that
you died.
Everyone we knew
came, said their I’m-so-sorry’s,
and
left, filtering out the front door
slowly
like sand through a sideways sifter,
leaving behind pieces,
words and memories
and casseroles I
could not taste.
And the whole time
everyone was here,
you were here, too.
I could hear
you, smell
you, feel
you.
I could feel you
surrounding me like the ghost of the baby blanket
I once had and could never leave at home.
I loved you here and here you would stay, with me,
and now you would never leave.
I could keep you.
You were bound to me.
But the ties that bind are tight and you did not like me leaving.
You could not go with me and
you
accidentally
and without words
by holding, enveloping,
suffocating
you told me
that you did not want me to ever leave again.
So I stopped.
I stopped leaving.
And the calls stopped, too.
The invites. The lunches. The impromptu trips to town.
All unnecessary noise.
The people left. And then it was just you and me.
Until one day I saw what you had done.
Tripping
I glanced in the mirror and saw.
You had etched yourself into my face.
Dug with your nails
terrifying ravines
escaping the corners
of my eyes. Pulled down
my mouth and every
shallow natural valley turned to
deep empty bowl, hungry and wanting.
My eyes no longer held light.
I saw this, all evidence against you,
and I still loved you.
You had hurt me in ways you never had
while you were here – here – and I knew.
And I still loved you.
Slinking up the stairs
I called you to me. I felt you surround
faster than before and
closer, tighter, colder.
Suffocating, stifling and
so destructive in how you loved me.
Slowly but faster
I grew to know
I would not become you and
you would not become me.
We were stuck on other sides of the mirror.
I was so angry
at what you had allowed me
made me
begged me to become.
Realizing
I gasped and put
hand to heart
it hurt so.
I stood upright
how long have I been bent
took in one long deep breath of stuffy air
how long since I opened the windows
and called you to me
when have I last heard a voice not my own
called you to listen.
I felt the loss of everything else
friends
family
adventure
excitement.
Nothing was left of that here
and I was so angry
and I am so sorry
and I yelled
I screamed
I roared
why are you still here
why are you making me like you
why did you come here and
hold me
and keep me here with you
I am not the one who is dead
and I said
and I regret
and I am so sorry
I can’t have you here
go away
and
leave me alone
and you did.
You left me
all alone.
Why would you leave me?
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
Flashback to as far back as the mind goes,
Masculinity is mighty and feminism is flawed,
Man is right and woman is wrong,
Boy is strong and girl is weak,
I’m a gentleman as long as I’m on top,
She can’t speak unless spoken to,
No place for women at the pulpit,
Men can’t learn from lesser beings.
Flashback to four years old,
The first time he was told,
Homosexuals will burn eternally,
Because they’re *******
He said God doesn’t love them,
They’re an abomination to creation.
Flashback to age twelve,
Welcome to the USA,
Export the Mexicans,
Eliminate the rag heads,
Burn the gays.
Flashback to seventh grade,
She left him for her,
The hate talk convinced him,
All gays were wrong always.
Flashback to freshmen year,
It was Halloween,
Debate class in the morning,
She was dressed as a nerd,
But obviously that so wasn’t her,
Because she was Iranian,
He asked where her turban was,
Said her outfit wasn’t complete without it.
Flashback to the close-minded, conservatively, homeschooled child,
Racism was as familiar as his father’s laugh,
Sexism known like the scent of his mother’s casseroles,
Ignorance was his bestfriend,
And hate pumped through his veins.
I don’t know if right wing racist remarks are forgivable,
But the one he was bred to despise showed nothing but forgiveness.
The Iranian girl shed tears,
Which caused him to shed his foggy lens,
For the first time, he saw his own sins,
A joke rooted in hate hurt an innocent girl,
An innocent tear hurt an ignorant boy,
I am an ignorant boy,
I felt her pain,
I stabbed myself with shame,
She befriended me,
She forgave.
Flawed people produced twisted identification,
She isn’t the Iranian girl,
Just a person.
Mexican, black, dark skinned, or light,
Christian, Atheist, Muslim,
Left wing or right,
Straight, gay, man, woman,
Irrelevant.
Mexican, black, dark skinned, or light,
Christian, Atheist, Muslim,
Left wing or right,
Straight, gay, man, woman,
Human.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
My mother grew up in a small town
and she married in a small town
and she lived in a small town
and she passed away here.
And our neighbours came with their casseroles
And the florist gave my family her best violets
And there was a discount on the casket.
My sister grew up in a small town
and she married in a small town
and she lived in a small town
And she works at the high school as an English teacher.
And she takes her kids to the park every Saturday,
And her car never uses more than a liter a month
And there is always a booth for her family at Sal's Diner.
My brother grew up in a small town
and he never did marry
but he never did leave.
So now he lives in this small town.
And he only ever takes his job as a deputy seriously
And every Sunday he tends to his geraniums,
And there is never any mail in his mailbox
And his coffee order has always been the same.
I grew up in a small town
and nothing ever changed
and so I left.
And I will never manage to travel to all the bus stops
And my barista never ever remembers my face
And the librarian is stern, always, instead of friendly
And there is never ever a dull moment
In this little world I've created in my big town.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 6:43 AM UTC
artful creations
colors, charcoals
paints
stone and clay
wood and paper
bringing life
from
lifeless
form
from
formless
can the artist choose?
~~~
garden creations
shades of green
jade
artichoke
asparagus
fern, forest
and
jungle
mint, moss
and
pine
shamrock
tea, olive
mixed
with
a multitude
of blooming
hues
can the gardener decide on one?
~~~
kitchen creations
sweets and treats
savories and piquants
cakes and pies
meats, stews
casseroles
butter, garlic
lemon
rosemary
and
thyme
parsley
and
saffron
onions caramelized
to sweet
peppercorns
and
cardamon
tamarind, turmeric
nutmeg
combined in
precision
joy and
love
can the chef say which is best?
~~~
and thus
I challenge any poet
can you choose your favorite "child"?
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 5:56 PM UTC
Be afraid.
The breakdown of civilization
is at the hands of our well-meaning,
overly thrifty,
spoon-wielding mothers.
Be very afraid.
They are entranced by spices
and covering condiments,
pepper and powder,
onion and garlic galore.
Gingerly they add cumin and dill,
cinnamon, nutmeg or cloves
with thyme to add sage and curry,
parsley, paprika and allspice.
Their casseroles become
zombie food
as the dead
reanimates.
These cheese-added monsters,
hungry for mystery-meat,
render brains to mush
and bind our bowels.
They stiffen our gait
with numbness and nausea
until we are rendered victims
of another pepto-pandemic.
And in the night
of the living dead,
feeding us salt
in a casserole apocalypse,
we panicked victims become
the casseroles we consume.
Now paralyzed
in fear
by the light
of the open refrigerator.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 1:00 PM UTC
#6
After the casseroles from anxious neighbors
And the flowers stopped arriving
And a last aging aunt blubbered goodbye,
I left the silent house,
Drove to the foothills
And began to climb.
Atop your favorite peak,
I opened the urn
And gave your ashes to the sky.
Will I ever stop wondering where you’ve gone?
The light was changing
As I descended into
The mountain's immense shadow.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
They named their youngest
Sarah Sweet
And you would too
if you chanced to meet
There wasn't a thing
she wouldn't do
Well maybe one
to tell the truth
Her parents pleaded, and begged,
rubbed Genie bottles for wishes
But Sarah Sweet
would not do dishes
She could not even
stand to think
Of sticking her hands
down in the sink
From tuna crusted
casseroles
To globs of oatmeal
days past old
Green and what?
watermelon rinds
Banana peels
way past their prime
From brussel sprouts
to pigs pickled feet
Cereal bowls
in what appears to be
Clumps of one time
Shredded Wheat
And don't forget
the mystery meat
So many nasty things
the sink holds within
That it makes poor Sarah's head
want to do a double spin
From something purple
to something pink
Something with
an awful stink
Something swimming
for it's life
Something else
that lost that fight
A little something
that's half chewed
That one time was
passed off as food
A little something else
to heighten the mood
Who put it there
no one knew
So much grossness
In the sink
To turn the stomach
Of Sarah Sweet
Now you see why
Despite her parents wishes
Their Sweet Sarah
WILL NOT DO DISHES!!!
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 7:42 AM UTC
One evening, in a sleepy Connecticut town, the locals saw a peculiar sight,
a UAP had landed in an empty field, and man, it lit up the night.
They were, axiomatically, from a distant galaxy, here to explore our shared cosmic space,
their metallic-phallic-rocket was multicolor pastel bright, like a carnival showcase.
There were cows that mooed approvingly and dogs that barked up at the sky,
like they needed to show where the thing came from - no one really knew why.
Soon little green people-like beings emerged, they had big, wide eyes that looked eerie,
but then again, this is how they’d always looked in movies and on TV.
"Take us to your leader," they said, but it was hard to take them seriously,
because this is America and most of us disagree on who that leader should be.
Someone brought out lawn chairs and the alien-astronauts settled in,
tables appeared shortly thereafter with a spread of pies, casseroles and fried chicken.
They spoke of their interstellar journeys, of planets far and wide,
of space cafes and wormhole highways and how gravity worked like tides.
One of the kids played some music and the explorers started to move,
soon we were having a dance-off - which they won - with some wacky, cosmic moves.
As morning light edged the horizon, our little green friends waved goodbye,
after saying that in some ways they envied us and our simple terrestrial lives.
Though they never promised to revisit, when the sky turns certain shade of blue,
townsfolk will set up a pasture party - just in case they do.
Jan 18, 2024
Jan 18, 2024 at 3:58 PM UTC
_‘First, the toilet paper panic.
Then a cleaning frenzy,
followed by a baking bonanza.
Now, slow-cooked casseroles
seem to be on the menu.
It's like the seven stages of grief,
…in groceries.’_
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 12:39 AM UTC
these are the thoughts
of Clive,
the neighborhood curmudgeon...
how do i know this,
i am the imp that put them here....
in the garden, you folks
call a brain......
*take this, sodding life
and it's meaningless struggle.
i set my face to this wall
and brick myself self in
to this useless stall.
the old man, Clive,
grumbled with a,
set and sour grin.
you...you're all pathetic,
thinking you can win.
death's the only victor...
over us, one
and sodding all.
and you can take,
your sodding...
flowers and cards
and sodding, casseroles too!!
there was,
one ray of sunshine
in my life
and now she is gone.
and she is not,
sodding around in another room,
or waiting for me up there.
she is not, in greener pastures
cause she was never..
an effin cow.
she is,
six footdown,
underground,
in a cheap wooden box,
making fodder,
for worms and beetles.
slowly, they are,
breakin her down.
and it will not be,
sodding fine
and time will not heal...
a heart smashed to smithereens.
a life torn asunder
**** me it's time,
for you pathetic
do-gooders...
to get ****** real....
no i am not,
a happy man,
and yes i am,
greiving the greatest loss.
and a ****** sausage
and bean casserole,
is not going to be,
making me believe,
that the world,
is a fair and just place...
don't you, worry about me.
i reckon i'll soon be,
leaving, my home
and my goods and chattels
and be recieving last rites,
farewells and a deep,dirt bed.
and that will be,
fine and dandy,
as long as it is,
close and handy,
to my beloved, Mandy.
what?
you're worried...
about my,
state of mind...
will ya, just sod off,
haven't i
made myself clear,
i am way, too busy dying,
to pay you any attention...*
this garden just going gangbuster
hey¡¡yah huzzah!!!
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
A form letter delivered by a Colonel's wife
She climbed the front porch steps on a beautiful spring day
The letter she handed me would forever change my life
What had been a gorgeous blue sky turned dingy and gray
My remembering our sweet life cuts me like a knife
The news that my best friend was never going to return
I was too shocked to cry or to react in any way
I carried the crumpled letter all day it made my eyes burn
Friends kept coming with casseroles and some bouquets
Is this table full of food and flowers what your life earns?
I am staring at your photograph on the buffet
I have so much to do when they bring what was you
Oh, how I wish I could make it all just go away
Planning a funeral my best friend to bid adieu
I don't know where your earthly remains will come to lay
This is not something I ever thought I would do
When we used to meet after class at that tiny cafe
Why did we delay our decision to have a child?
I'll need something to hold as your face fades away
You were my great hero so passionate and so wild
I'll always agnosco veteris vestigia flammae
I loved how you stood face to face with horror and smiled
I must face my losses I can no longer delay
I do not know what I'll miss the most you or our life
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 12:23 AM UTC
the currency of
grieving is in....
casseroles and soups,
left with notes,
on the back doorstep
flowers, bright, beautiful
and fragant,
delivered by gangling, teenage boys.
awkard silences and cups
of lukewarm tea.
mumbled condolences and
too tight hugs
late night rememberances,
after,
far too many drinks
tears, laughter and
in-house jokes...
photos, stories and
space for quiet reflection.
these things are...
the dollars and cents
of grief for a friend
but when all is, said
and done....
i would much prefer
to be penniless,
begging on the street,
with pockets empty
and moths for friends.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
T.V. dinners and casseroles
Comfort food for wounded souls
Adding up the aftermath
One light on at home
Resisting the urge to laugh
In disbelief that you're alone
Tonight your eyes are dry
From all the tears that you've cried
Tomorrow you'll find time
To get him off your mind
After you call the insurance company
To change the policy
And you stare at the photographs long and hard
Take scissors to the worn out credit cards
Wash the last load of clothes
Take another minute to close
Your eyes and remember
His wrinkled face
Standing in this place
Smiling at you
No need to cry
So much left to do
Time to open your eyes
Something you despise
But you know you have to
Make up your bed
Regret the words unsaid
Sell one of the cars
Rethink everything's 'mine'
No longer 'ours'
Cut the grass
Take out the trash
All the while,
Learning that nothing lasts
Listen to all the condolences
Curse the time that's stolen his
Memory from your mind
Despite all the time
He was here
With you
It’s so clear
It was true
And it's so sad watching you
Wash the dishes at home
Hearing your lonely moans
Driving to the store
But knowing it's only for
You and you alone.
Yes, watching the empty chair across from you
Makes you want to die a little too
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
NaPoWriMo Day 7: write about something you value. This poem is from my Cherished series http://lillianthehomepoet.wordpress.com
The Table
She found the table at Marshall Fields
in nineteen forty-nine, and pictured
her family at exactly half-past six each night
four plates, four forks, knives and spoons.
White oak, the Illinois state tree
with tight growth rings
durable, resilient, and
carved with artisan's care.
Emotions buffed artfully into lustrous patina
over years marred by scratches, chips and burns
tuna-noodle-pea casseroles set forgetfully upon the wood
and forks slammed down in anger.
Keeping up with Rita, Gwen, and Claire
teflon pans and a formica table-topper
emotions erupt with modernity as leftovers
disappear in a single swipe of the hand.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
how long does it take for the loss to set in?
- 5 hours, or until the church ladies arrive, laden with casseroles and condolences
where does the time go?
- fast forward four years, Young Heart,
remember summer nights by the river
how do you live now?
- long nights and loud music, Sunday brunch and sunny afternoons.
Good friends, cheap beer, always looking up.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
i've been harboring pain for years on end, served up dishes in various ways, having to mask the disgust I feel when it arrives in droves
people make food to try and heal your despair, and lately all they can seem to make is hurt and so my heart knows nothing but the taste of it
mouth full of anguish and blood and when it opens all that comes out is garbled pleas yet no one can hear
"how are you?" but if I told you you wouldn't know what to do, how to fix it, my suffering makes you uncomfortable and yet
if i died, what would you say?
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 5:26 PM UTC
I feel you there in the place with electric trees.
You are playing games, making casseroles, and sometimes thinking about me.
I type the words and wonder if you're watching the dots bounce and then I retreat.
Backspace.
No, I can't. I need to leave you alone to heal.
I picture you in the tub.
Candle lit and octopus shadow cast on your ceiling.
I wonder if you ever sink down beneath the water to drown me out for just a moment.
For a moment I don't think about you. I am fine. And, then there you are.
A comment online not even directed my way.
Seen. Lingered over and then I scroll on.
I argue with myself and make bargians with the you in my imagination.
Would the real you be receptive?
Maybe?
But, we would just be kidding ourselves again.
Maybe we never should had started?
We knew the risk.
We discussed them all in detail.
We both stepped into this eyes wide open.
But, would I do it again?
Maybe.
Would you?
Maybe.
And, then I remember how you kiss me as if one of us is off to war.
How you smell me when you think I don't notice.
How, your blue eyes run hot when you are inside me.
And. I know I would.
I wouldn't give those moments away just because it hurts now.
I'd still chose you even if I knew I would be losing you soon after.
I'm either stupid or romantic.
Well, let's admit I am both.
Know this,
Every time I pass the electric trees
-for the rest of my years-
I will remember us there.
Moaning, laughing, snoring.
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 8:44 PM UTC
I say it’s cozy - you say it’s cluttered.
I say it’s comfy, you say it’s crowded.
Two hundred miles from what we knew and loved
Those miles have somehow slipped between us.
You say this place must be bewitched
You put down things, they walk away.
I say your mind is occupied-
You’re not living in the moment.
Hamstrung by a phone line waiting for connection
Someone in India has a hand in our lives
And decides who we can talk to,
Limited now to only each other.
The sun gave a hint of blisters to come,
Then cooled by an unexpected deluge
That turned cardboard cartons to sagging mush
And soaked us as we tried to save them.
They said it rained just ten times a year
But our record for the first two weeks:
Two monsoon pours and 4 more others
While thunder and sheet lightning filled the heavens.
The sky lights up like strobes on crack
While thunder rumbles in the distance
Overture to monster downpour
Dried and gone before the sunrise.
No Welcome Wagon rang our bell
No casseroles appeared
Nothing more than a random wave
To welcome us to this new life.
They said there’s no humidity
So the heat is not so bad
My gauge shows that glass half full
And we’ve been lied to once again.
We put our rubber plants outside
They were quickly cooked to mush.
We salvaged only two leaves each Small reward for major effort.
Who can live in such a place
The natives always say it’s lovely.
But nothing we were told is true
And somehow we must find a way.
ljm
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 3:23 PM UTC
Homemade pasta; a family effort,
and smells of baking birthday cakes
Quickly faded into pizza and chicken nuggets;
family gatherings now held by the hospital bed
The era of casseroles sprang up unannounced when
our living room became a welcoming room for strangers
but they were sorry for my loss
Grilled cheese and pizzas once again were a staple
as the strangers moved forward, expecting us to follow
A whirlwind of wedding cake and dancing
molded on three more to my family of four
Family dinners a newly sacred tradition
was the welcoming stage for the new regime
but our faces wore smiles
Meals were tension and mouthfuls of anxiety
our masks wearing thin; yet we were to be the happy family
Dining hall meals eventually replaced the tension
and a new family emerged to surround me
Except for those nights when beer was my only sustenance
being touched by darkness to the hidden monster within
but i was trained; my smile would not falter
TV dinners stock the freezer back home
broken family biding time until the next explosion
wounds too deep to see accompanied unacknowledged pain
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 4:05 PM UTC
On my belly
I conspire
To Live
A life of crime
Glory above
There is no
Such thing as
No Values
All fortunes
and deeds
become dusty
clouds
On the horizon
There is only
A legacy
of old jokes
Passed down
through births
and marriages
across towns
Held up
by gunpoints
and finger
points
Pinned down
by church
potlucks
and Casseroles
Propped up
by war stories
and movies
About heroes
Brought down
by their own
Glories
In the dust
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
I heard the ring of the ambulance
As it barrelled down from E,
But wasn’t really awake, so didn’t
Know that it came for me.
They had me strapped on a stretcher
In the twinkling of an eye,
And only when we arrived, did I
Believe I was going to die.
The pain had been unrelenting since
I’d eaten the evening meal,
It started up in my shoulder, and
My hands, I couldn’t feel,
I felt my head become groggy, till
I finally passed out,
It must have been when I hit the floor
That I heard your sudden shout.
They said it must be a heart attack
So they’d have to run a test,
But while I lay in the hospital
I’d better get some rest.
I kept on coming and going while
The questions filled my head,
I wondered if I’d been poisoned,
Did you really want me dead?
I’d thought that it tasted funny, at
The time, as I said to you,
The meat had had a consistency
As if it was cooked in glue,
And then some of those vegetables
I couldn’t recognise,
You said I’d not know the difference
Between casseroles and pies.
And then, it must be about the time
That my forehead became damp,
You said whatever I knew of food
You could write on a postage stamp,
But you had been acting strangely since
That boarder came to stay,
Spending your time in drinking wine
That he’d brought from Bordelais.
I knew to look for the danger signs
In your long retreat from me,
I knew at once that he had designs
When his hand had touched your knee,
And every time that I left you two
Alone on a sultry day,
I had to wonder what you would do
To while the time away.
Your friend, Margot, has visited me
Alone in my hospital bed,
She said you were picking mushrooms,
Which has left my mind in dread.
She always seems to have favoured me,
And she sat and held my hand,
She said I shouldn’t have married you,
This is what you would have planned.
My mind was full of suspicion when
You came to visit me,
But you had cried, said I almost died,
And that brought you misery.
‘You know that I’ve always loved you,
But that love has brought me pain,
Whenever you look at Margot, it’s
Like losing you again.’
I asked her about the boarder and
She said that he’d gone before,
‘I only ever played up to him
To make you want me more.’
We’re both a prey to suspicions
And the heartache that they lend,
We’re over that, and we made a pact,
Our love is on the mend.
David Lewis Paget
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC
my hometown is haunted
there’s memories down every back road,
and some spirits are stuck on who they were
they roam the old dirt roads,
Thinking things have never changed.
There’s confederate soldiers still roaming my neighborhood,
The ghosts of slaves still singing their songs
Which are carried into the ears of their descendants,
it’s a reminder of rights that haven’t been granted.
There’s still hills from the crops that have been planted years and years ago.
There’s still people that hold the same belief as their white grandparents did.
There’s still hills and mountains to climb before everyone realized we’re all the same height.
My hometown is plagued with hatred,
But you have to listen closely,
It’s in the voices of rich southern belles,
Down to the soul of the tobacco spitting **** heads.
It’s cooked into green bean casseroles and fed to their children
Through backhanded compliments plastered in a facade.
Late at night, listen to the sounds in my hometown and
You’ll hear history.
Listen to the abandoned train,
And the slaves that worked through the heavy rain
if you close your eyes, you’ll see the sweat and tears,
Where you can’t tell which is which.
Listen to the broken souls,
And how far it carried into their own.
And you’ll realize this war was never over
For anyone begging for a difference
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC
Early for work
homemade coffee
will an ordinary life
ever find me
Dentist and errands
groceries purchased
an ordinary life
with a purpose
A fence for the dog
a house for me
an ordinary life
can set me free
Casseroles and pies
worn in cast iron
an ordinary life
could fuel my fire
Supper at 7
good night at 11
an ordinary life
sounds like heaven
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 2:30 PM UTC
i have said goodbye
more times than i can count
to grandparents
aunts and uncles
a good friend that i thought i would never be older than
but saying goodbye to myself
my old self
my girl self
is something that i still grieve from time to time
and it is such a disconnect that comes with this
because there was no body
nothing to mourn
no coffin
though i prefer to be cremated
i would like to grow into a tree
or be crushed down into a record
that only plays one song
over and over again
but nobody sent flowers
or so many casseroles that i had to
ask them to stop because i was
seeing tuna in my dreams
and the dying flowers were making me even sadder
*********
but no
because there was no body
though there almost was
nothing happened
just my falling asleep
and waking up
as if the past nine years had never happened
from seven to sixteen
knowing that something was different in me
and how it almost very nearly killed me
hell i still have the scars
and my insides are probably at least
a bit ****** from those **** pills
but i still do not know
how to say goodbye to who i was
who i was labeled because
i was a baby born with a ******
and of course that automatically equals female
doesn’t it?
but there is still such a disconnect
between the old name and who i am now
because even though i can get rid of
my *******
my ******
and Testosterone will put hair on my face
and give me a happy trail
and my voice will deepen
and i will go through a second puberty
where i want to **** everything
there are people that still see me
as a girl
a she
a lesbian
butch
tomboy
****
but all they really see are my *******
and what they assume is in my pants
and that is not who i am
that is not who i ever was
and ****** why can’t they just see
that this saying farewell
to my old self
does not mean i stop being
who i am
because i am so much more
than my *******
and my ******
and my ability to nurture a human life
inside my own body
i am so much more than my body
and my old selves do not determine who i am
today because today i am alive
and i am so much more than my body
i am so much more
than how you see me
i am so much more
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 9:06 PM UTC