When I was just a little girl,
And as little girls were taught then,
I played with dolls and a teaset,
Made mudcakes for food,
Wore skirts, made my hair into ponytails as I was let.
I saw the boys with the abandon which comes with free wear and play,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

When I was older, a teen
and as teen girls were taught then,
Walk, talk, rock softly
Don’t draw too much attention
Or attempt to explore too much.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom to play, sit, be as they want  ,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

When I was sixteen, oh sweet sixteen,
And as sixteen year old girls were taught then,
Don’t wear clothes that show your frame,
That’s indecent and you will be in another home and will incur alot of blame.
Don’t wander, argue, or express an opinion,
You’re a girl, being humble, quiet and gentle becomes you.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom of movement and speech,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

When I was older, and passionately sought a particular career,
I was admonished as many other girls in my time,
It’s not a career for women, late nights, more men to be around,
When you get married, that’s not going to work and troubles will abound.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with the  freedom of pursuing their dreams,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

When I was married, and setting a home, working  and raising a family,
I left my work as many other girls in my time,
For my husband to follow his work path,
Unquestioningly, unflinchingly, resolutely.
I saw the men then with the abandon which comes with freedom of being in control of their lives,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.

But this is just the surface of my questioning being a girl,
When boys and men around tried their stunts on girls and women,
I questioned my existence.
When many girls and women I know,
Were told to stay mum on men close who took advantage of them
I questioned my existence.
When In the workspace,
Women got paid less than men because their salary were subtly looked at as secondary salaries,
Or needed to speak louder to be heard,
I questioned my existence.
When the onus of keeping a relationship working  was the woman’s responsibility largely,
I questioned my existence.
When a woman got hit by her spouse,
Its she who may have provoked him.
When a man strayed,
Its she who was not a good enough wife that he had to look elsewhere.
I questioned my existence.

The atrocities many men are capable of,
The filth many men spread,
****, hate, aggression, manipulation and more
Abuse, gaslighting inside closed doors,
Wearing a mask of sophistication outside
Animalistic and entitled beings to the core.

My apologies to men who are not,
And I know some,
But they are but a handful,
Too insignificant in the larger way the world works.

But then I see me,
A harbinger of change,
In my home and around.
Raising my son differently,
Advocating for change purposively,
Actioning resolutely what’s right,
Woman for women with all my might.
I see so many more women now who retain their selves and are beacons of hope,
They don’t sit around and just mope.

And I am glad I am a girl,
And I question no more,
I question no more.

In time we stand still forgetting the memories
That burden the frontier with poison and tragedy
Lest we forget that the deed had been signed
By prospectors and cowboys who’ve long since died
Aiming a loaded shell towards eradication
An idea that precedes psychopathy in terms of petition
Yet ponders so freely to children so willing to point them the barrel and fire such rounds

I urgently take the bounty for the hunting of the buffalo
Using their skulls for declination, a sturdy stronghold
Yet deep in heart I realize that it spawns back to devils
That pay only to spoil their countless fruits of survival
The cause paints our flag a brilliant blue
The blood breeds red and helps assimilate too
From their ponytails, against remorse, I could yank off their heads
And perhaps repay the herd of bison for their dead

We danced mountain songs naked under pale blue moonlight
Imitating their gestures in the style of caricature
The stars glistening, reflecting in pools of gory mucus
The rotting carcasses that attract forest vultures
Which we willingly hunt and devour without hesitance

A rack of scalps hung from the duster, cloth sodden with their fluids
Marking migration patterns on various maps to follow and stalk with
Here we sing to the villages of which we’ve burned down
Hoping that God, in His grace, could forgive such savage hounds
The calls of doves forfeit an olive branch
Which I gleefully wave just as they have
My own Trojan horse stitched together with leather
That wasn’t dried enough, and now radiates a stench that reminds us of their innards

I’ve slaughtered and mangled all over this place
Made worse by their stories of which I desecrate
Publishing such influent texts that examine the earlier beds
Of which they rose, so little prose, such daft fools with stone age tools
Crops yield only ******* food made for the feeding of the poor
Discarding the rest of them as bait or our personal ******

“I weep for the white hand that cared there for me!
To wrap me in blankets and help me to feed
The weak child in infancy cooing so sweet
Not knowing they’d have him killed in his sleep”
Annihilation fits best at the source, this genocide funded by the Master of Greater Deed and Good
The weary dead, the weary live, the weary now stay in places we couldn’t stand to be in

A gift that gives only twice, an upstart arch that cradles this land so warmly, inspiring us to embrace our homes
The promise of freedom which notions an equality we could find only in remembrance of scattered bones
The lawmen there, they never repent, they’ve lived all their lives and they never forget of their deeds, which secretly brings a perverse enjoyment none other recieve
Unless you count rapists and murderous men which tally their targets and hold out the heavy heads of victims in satchels and bags
A shame we now see them as monuments honored so swiftly, decorated with golden plaques
Please leave some flowers in the mass grave I was buried in, somewhere in Arizona, it wouldn’t hurt to sense the illusion of fresh air
A torso of tooth and rib and a dried clump of hair
Look down on your works, ye lowly, and despair!

my hair is falling out more--
i don't quite understand why.
could it be the food I've been eating--
or lack thereof.
am i pulling too ******* my ponytails--
or yanking too tightly while twisting my braids.
can it be the stress of my final days of school--
or all the assignments still marked in red.
possibly the ache in my heart for him--
or the rage simmering in my chest.
maybe it's simply symptoms of ***--
or just my mind pressing buttons at random.
would it be because of my anxiety flowing over--
or the jitters from my morning cup of coffee.
funny if I've been tearing at my scalp in my sleep--
or clawing the demons from my dreams.

I want summer like I want you, constantly. I’m tired of cold that snatches my breath and hope. I want the trees to regain their decency and cover their bare limbs. Wearing the greenest fullest blouses. I want the grass to grow. Thunder to roll and rain to fall. I want fat drops to bounce of the pavement, to wash my face and hair.

I want the sun to bath my skin in beauty, making it glow with warmth. I want dresses and shorts and skirts. I want brown legs and flip-flops. I want turquoise pools and florescent swimsuits.

I’m sick of cold fingers and toes. I’m tired of heaters and blankets. I want to roll down the windows. I want sweat on my back and only sheets on my bed. I’d love warm nights, drinking sweet tea, and making love beneath the stars. I wish for glowing street lights and lake nights. I want to sit in the windows of cars at sonic.

I want barbeque sunflower seeds and the fourth of July.

I want field parties with only beer and red bull, and only bonfires to see by. I want fireflies and chigger bites. Lemonade out of mason jars.
I miss cotton, and sandals. I miss volleyball, ***** feet, and ponytails. But what I miss most about summer is freedom. Those summer night driving under an endless sky of stars.

Fay was waiting for me
at the top of Meadow Row

I was on my way home
from school
-I'd walked home
as I’d spent my fare money
on doughnuts that morning-

she looked agitated
her blonde hair
was in two ponytails
her eyes looked red
as if she'd been crying

thought I’d missed your bus
she said

no I walked
I said
what's up?

she took my hand
and we walked down
Meadow Row
walking past
the bomb sites
and the ruins
of other houses  

I’ve lost my rosary
she said
I can't find it

what's a rosary?
I asked

a crucifix with beads
I showed you
the other week

O that bead thing
so what's the problem?
can't you buy another?

it was my grandmother's
old one

well buy her another one
I said

I can't she died
last year

well she won't
need it then
will she
I said

she stopped
but Daddy will want
to know why I lost it
and then he'll go off
the deep end  
and I know
he'll punish me
and it wasn't my fault

she began to cry
and I didn't know
what to say or do

where do you keep it?
I asked

in my coat pocket
so it's handy
if I want to use it

and it's not there now?

she shook her head
and put her hand
in the pocket
of her coat

is that the coat
you always wear?
she nodded

what about Sundays?

she looked at me

today's Monday
maybe you left it
in your coat you
wear on Sundays
I said

she looked at me
with reddened eyes
of course I forgot
it must be in
my Sunday coat
from yesterday

let's go find out
I said

but what if Daddy's there?

so what?
I said

he doesn't like me
being with you
because you're not
a Catholic

I’ll wait outside
on the balcony
if he is
I said

so we walked up
Meadow row
and crossed over
Rockingham Street
and up the *****
and into the Square
and along to the flats
and up the concrete staircase
to her parent's flat
which was above
where I lived

she knocked and her mother
let her in
and I stood on the balcony
looking into the Square

after 5 minutes or so
she opened the door
smiling and said

it was in my Sunday coat
all the time
and she kissed my cheek

I knew then
I’d not wash
that area of my face
the whole week.

He runs with unbridled joy
And eats every biscuit that he licks
His eyes light up with every new toy
‘Twas a beautiful world and he was just six.

Learning to make friends at school
Coloring books, catching crooks
Pulling ponytails, breaking rules
Big eyes that mesmerize with every look.

Everything was beautiful bliss
But soon this peace was destroyed
His innocence was robbed starting with an unwanted kiss
And the soul became cold, dark and void.

The evil one dimmed his happy fire
And unsparingly exploited his vulnerability
Used his body for  evil desire
Repeatedly ***** him most ruthlessly.

That boy with the spark in his eyes is gone
Salty tears instead of the chocolate ice creams
Blamed god for everything that went wrong
But Alas! No one heard his screams.

He lies down exhausted
Nursing his wounds and scars
Waiting for the train to come around
He was spared to live long and far.

The evil one took everything that he had
But today he fights continuously
To spare others, his fate as a lad
Defiance to the evil one he shows tirelessly.

Because there’s one hope that leads him on
Wounds will heal, scars will fade
Remembering the pain, he cries alone
My son, I’m with you , do not be afraid.

SUN GIRLS: sun-kissed goddesses, some a little darker than others because the sun loves them just a little bit more, writes poetry sitting outside a local coffee shop, always happy all the time, loves the color yellow, wears mom jeans and tucked in t-shirts all the time, is soft and loves love, long hair, mostly in braids or ponytails.

MOON GIRLS: dark circles under their eyes, parties a lot, drinks to forget their heartbreak, red lipstick and black eyeshadow, sleepless nights accompanied by anxiety, owns over 20 different leather jackets, loves adrenaline, risk-taker, a smoker, strong smell of cigarettes and mint gum, smirks a lot, flirty, secretly likes sun girls

chosen child for nature's creativity
tangoing to the sway of twilight trees
such spiritually sensual sensibilities

hypersensitivity heightening passion
life intensified in intellectual interest
love embellished with emotional empathy

oh, to bottle her elusive essence
to drink in her wistful nights
to infuse my tea with her promise
to scent my pillow with her dreams

uncork the atmospheric aroma
of sepia tinged crescents
wafting in celestial patisseries

sweeten the clear blue skies
with mists of crystallized honey
perfuming the divine aether

oh, fill my breath with her ephemeral
synchronize my life's pulse to the
metronome ponytails of skipping girls
followed by the tails of wagging dogs

Here's the truth:
I'm not a good writer.
And there are no words that will make this pain easier or prettier.
So here are a few more truths, minus the metaphors and alliterations and puns and other sorry excuses to romanticize the aches.

1. First, a quick question: who do you vent to when everyone you ever trusted hurts you? Why do I find myself questioning this so often?
2. A past lover told me I deserve a relationship with someone who doesn't need a conversation on how my current situation would hurt or not be okay. Regardless, I still feel like it's my fault for assuming you wanted only me.
3. I can't remember the last time I had two meals in one day. You like my ribs and collar bones and hips under your lips too much for me to risk it. I need to buy a new scale because the day before yesterday I weighed 88.6 lbs and tonight it reads 93 but that can't be because all I've eaten is a bagel and some peach yogurt and a cookie. Once again, it's probably just my thoughts weighing me down.
4. I get drunk to cope too often. I'm afraid one day I'll need help. Not because of the amount I drink, but the reasons behind all of the empty bottles.
5. I told you how afraid I was to open up again. I told you how vulnerability kept me from you for so long but I couldn't imagine any more what if's with you and I didn't think you'd ever be capable of making me feel this way so I squeezed your hand and overcame my fear.
6. Your bed started to feel like home a lot sooner than I expected it to.
7. I cried when I read what you wrote about me. I don't know how to take it. I don't know how I should feel about all of it.
8. You're different than when I first met you. I mean, I know that I have changed completely as well, but I hardly recognize you. I feel like I am getting to know a new person I've just met, which is actually sort of nice when I really think about it.
9. It took less than nine weeks.
10. I left all eight of my Harry Potter DVDs, five or so of my books, numerous ponytails and tic tac packs at your house. I'll have to get them back eventually but that will feel like a breakup and we were never together in the first place.
11. I always quote myself. I've always said "I've never been good at closing doors." This is still true. I can't cut you off. But a wise girl once proved to me that flipping the switch and cutting off emotions is a good way to keep my heart safe... When you came back into my life, I had every wall up that I could manage, but when I let one come down, I let them all down. I didn't have any protection or security. I was open. Open. Open. Open. Open and hoping not to get robbed... You either keep all of the walls up and hurt someone or let them all down and get hurt. Where's the middle? I need to find some sort of atrium.
12. I'm not good at not being a writer. Sometimes that's the best way to describe it. I couldn't think of how to word the previous truth in simpler terms or in relativity to the reality of it.
13. I told you about how my parents were addicted to pills, you saw the scars on my thighs, I fell asleep next to you and woke up still next to you. Did you realize as it was happening, how big of a deal that was for me?
14. Your justification was that you thought you meant less to me. WHAT ON EARTH MADE YOU THINK THAT

What I Wanted to Wear for Halloween

…is not what you wanted me to wear for Halloween.
I wanted to be one of those girls in the comic books,
spinning around in high-heeled boots, high-strung ponytails, and miniskirts.
You convinced me to be Mulan.
It was the 90’s, after all.
And she was pretty cool. I guess.
I loved it more when I realized she had a sword. I planned to cut my hair with it.
But when I asked for her sword, you handed me a fan, told me to have fun with my friends.
My best friend wore a real kimono that year – all thick and purple and bright –
her father brought it back from Japan.
We were both Mulan. I guess.
But she loved her fan and silk and uppy hair up-do.
Mine had already taken a tumble for the worse.
And that is exactly what I see, many years later, as I stare in the mirror – finally in my boots.
I keep them on when I sit at the keyboard and type in her name
M-U-L-A-N
The truth comes after H-U-A
After twelve years of fighting, and dying, and winning, and fighting by her side,
China didn’t even know she was a woman.
They couldn’t have cared less at all.

Wounded knees, mango trees,
Walking down the same old street,

Eight years old, feeling bold,
A **** on the nose and an awful cold,

Chicken pox, knee-high socks,
Folded letters in a black shoe box,

Ponytails, fairy tales,
Choir practice, don't forget to exhale,

Chapter books, nasty looks,
Never had the chance to cook,

Constant smothers, doting mother,
Shamelessly listening to The Jonas Brothers,

Toothy grins, double chin,
Constantly losing bobby pins,

Stupid drama, Oxford Comma,
No DS for Cooking Mama

Cheeks flushed, prep crush,
I still regret that very much,

Detention, pay attention,
Meet everyone's expectations,

Disappointment, good intent
Nothing that I said was meant,

Growing up, just shut up,
Remember it's okay to mess up,

Years went by, I wonder why,
When did my childhood say goodbye?

she lived alone
by the little glass window
on the 12th floor
always open
seeing every color and stain
of urban life flashing below
across the courtyard

black, white, yellow, brown
and a redhead going down
the block for a ghetto special
4 chicken wings and fries

and fly uncle johnny
in his trench-coat and superslims
running paper slips to the bodega
on the corner of broadway and 5th

and little blues babies in ponytails
doing the double-dutch hustle
a skip and **** away
from motherhood

and radio raheems
peddling mix tapes, joints and conspiracies
to mis-educated teens
flashing silver grills, c's and black stones
under high-top fades and fro's

closing only for hurricanes
and ricochet bullets

permanently when one
caught miss helen in the eye

she lived alone..  

~ P
(7/8/2013)

I am strong…
I endure what you cannot.
I fight what you could not.
depression, regression
pain, tears…
heh, you would run to your mommy if faced with my fears.

I am determined…
to have my dream
without watching it all burst at the seams.
to make people happy
and to show them they are strong,
to teach my future children right from wrong,
to marry the love of my life,
to hear him say he’s happy that I’m his wife,
to not let you get me down,
to smile, when everything is pointing toward a frown.

I am free-spirited…
fun, wild, crazy…
I live out
I laugh loud
I cry hard
I love strong.
****, hott,
sophisticated, or not,
black makeup, blood-red nails,
fishnets, ponytails,
emo, gothic,
it’s obvious I have inner magic.
my thighs move like thunder,
while my wit is like lightening.
my presence is commanding,
comforting, yet frightening.

I am predator…
vampire in bloodlust
trapping you with my eyes
my aura ***** you in, to your demise,
feeding off of your soul
drinking you in until I am sated and whole.

I am unpredictable…
unprecedented
I do the unthinkable
your rules don’t apply to me
I dance to my own rhythm
hum my own tune
walk barefoot in the rain
I do everything you wouldn’t expect
I so most things your average girl wouldn’t do.

you cannot dictate to me
who, what, or where to be.
I am Cocheta:
That You Cannot Imagine.
an anomaly, you cannot tell my origin.

I am:
love, hope
home, trust
power, lust
wind, rain
woman, ethereal
succubus, nocturnal
black, fire
poetry, seduction
color, confidence
shy, innocent
emotion, devotion
different, perfection

I AM ME
a force to be reckoned with.
and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.

At the stroke of five o’ clock
The crew begins to trickle in the door for
Josie’s Slumber Party.
Hand cut finger sandwiches adorn
The chestnut coffee table already brimming
With nail polishes and eyeshadows
In hues of peacock blue and bubblegum pink
And temptress scarlet red. The girls
Romp around the room like ballerinas
Dressed in everything from soccer shorts to
Mama’s high heels. Two sizes too big.
Practically ladies as they gloss their lips but
Girlish giggles and squeals reveal their
Youth: Age ten; age eleven; age twelve.
And in the middle of this fine affair
Polished nails are used to pick at teeth;
Makeup adheres to bangs, braids and ponytails.
Bare hands brush through the knotted hair of
Any and All. Beauty  – of course – is collective, yet
Dignified.


As if to call the girls over, lure them in so painfully slow,
The sprinklers awaken on the front lawn and spill forth
Waterfalls of childhood memories. Running barefoot
during the searing summer dusk. The girls are under
The Spell. Feather boa and lipstick at hand, they make
A mad dash for the lawn. The squeals are louder, more
Vibrant than before. With grass stains on their gowns
and water re-tangling their freshly styled hair, these
Ladies could not be any more proper.

Thump Thump.
Butterflies crawl in my chest.
Thoughts swirl around in my head.
I can’t focus or see straight.
This is anxiety.

And it’s not something I
talk about often, though it’s
more common than one might
think, where my heart pounds so
loud and anxious
thoughts threaten to
drown out everything
that makes me,
Me.

You see, my brain sees simple
things incorrectly.
Texts and sometimes the
thought of leaving the
house sends
adrenaline coursing through my
system like
a thousand shots of caffeine
into my bloodstream.
The logical parts of me fled on the
first flight out of town,
leaving me to feel the tremors and
full force tsunami
on the ground.

Anxiety is a lot like love,
but it’s a battle not a dance.
A lifetime, not five minutes.
Unlike love, it’s often violent.
But just like love, it’s quite silent.

Anxiety feels like hunger, but stronger.
Like fear, but it lasts longer.
Writing this poem has quelled the
qualms that anxiety often spells.

I wish that I could be honest
about this part of me. But it's
one of those things you’re trained
not to talk about from a young age.
Because unless you’re depressed,
medicated, or heaven forbid
you’re not seeing a therapist,
then it’s not bad enough to qualify.
It’s not big enough to report.
I’m not suffering enough.

But if you could just feel
my heart beating fast.
If you could interpret the swell
of my tell-tale blush.
If you could whisk your fingers
through all of my thoughts.
If you could only
hear all of the things I’m feeling
but can’t quite express.
Then you would know that my
silence is telling.
I may be smiling, but currently I’m
fighting for sanity in my own mind.
The mind I feel is no longer mine.
I’m walking a dangerous
tightrope *****.
My mind is a minefield of poisonous
butterflies.
They threaten to swallow me alive, so
I tread the violence quietly.

I fear when I expose you to this
side of me, you’ll only see anxiety
or that maybe I’m lying.
But anxiety is not me.
I am more than mixed up brain signals.

The rest of me is cardigans in the summer,
because it’s cold inside.
I am mock converse and ponytails and
words on paper,
thoughts poured out,
slowly.

I just feel anxious
Sometimes.
More than normal, actually.
But I’m dealing with it.
And I’m no less me.

two hits
and I'm gone
holding my high
from dubai to discovery bay

I met John
on his black harley
along the way,
my nowhere man in ponytails
chasing Jesus off the charts

he gave me
his bloodied lens
and a dime

I peered through bullet holes
in his heart
and saw the devil

and the glazed eyes of Mark
frozen in time
like grime and graffiti
on the walls of Attica

he gave me
his smoking gun
and a pen

"Imagine......"

~ P (Pablo)

i.
pictures hung so abundantly like there was a ponytail for every assorted alcoholic beverage that would go down while you sat on the counter top with grey in your eyes
or on my lap like lavender gloves. i bought flour and red velvet as atonement, but hollow words are as indicative of unfaithfulness as your eyelashes were indicative of my heartbeat speeding up like your raggedy red Taurus on the Pike and slowing down like our souls in self-reflection, co-morbidly.

ii.
i clip to cold like frozen gnomes but the room with fire was bellowing through the chimney in your irises. it was the ceiling i was the most comfortable collapsing under. Merlot, you are a peach and almost all of the sun that our brains can ultravioletly receive. There is no where to run to when logs and THC are crackling while you let my try on your scarves and you rub my arm horizontally like there was no famine or *** trafficking in the world. The rabbit is always right and Dewey loved the hay and telling us that we belong together. there was no time to guess the right combination of psych meds and there was certainly no one there to close the sliding glass door.

we'd unzip and kiss in a mist of dampened television volume while everyone was asleep. i fell into you, first in billions of separate-cardboard puzzle pieces and then all at once like oblivion within a climate-controlled stadium.


iii.
i noted the same pictures in this room and how your ponytails ended all existing threats to human suffering.

iv.
i loved the dark and the stars and the soupy-vacuum, pulling us in and spitting us out like a bitter mango.
there was never any water in your pool to turn green and so the unfilled concrete was an ocean to our symmetrical lawn-chair thrones, radiating green jeans and the hazel-stained dream-scene.

we lost what vision was real and what was a dream. this was a gift beyond any explanation or expectation. yet, you wouldn't let me remove all of the shrapnel and funnel antibiotics with my barren fingertips onto your scalp.

v.
here, there was kin-
the only room in which your skin didn't show me a piece of you,
but your words did.
there's a way that all of our lives collide like a supernova and our explosion felt more like a hundred-decade erosion,
giving and taking from each other like a sea-side boulder and the tide.


vi.**
you finally showed me the flesh you were ashamed to show the couch, your bed for two in Easthampton, mac & cheese without almond milk, the top of Wachusett, the pit of a pizza dish, the sink of the swooning stitches, the empty pool, the movie theater, your fake bras, and
everything else that supported us like an apparition that wouldn't return my favorite t-shirts.

and i was in.

my fingernails were there. every hair i touched while panic deducted consciousness in some scarce granting of a wish was another prarie for me to grow corn and flowers and ecstasy within. every single crop died but i never forget how self-loathing turned into a comforting sleep. we ran from consciousness like a runaway train but you were always on my back, whispering that solidarity was a the solution to a world that values prosperity over pragmatic humanity.

all the tears and dreams that danced like the branches in the frigid, unforgiving winter were dried up like a creek that i lost consciousness in when you shut the door.

these spaces exist in purgatory because i don't remember my dreams anymore and nothing really ever means anything,
like biting off my fingers in all of these rooms that are left with only memories of you.

I visited her at the hospital ward
smiled my ladybird
baby delivered!

Her two ponytails in red ribbon
not a woman she was
but a girl overgrown!

In her arms lay a little fairy
wasn’t just a baby
but a piece of me!

Beamed its face looking at me
recognized joyously
here was daddy!

She, me, and our baby
we're stuck in that place
*ever happily!

I am thirteen
    when the mean girls call
me weird—
I do not shave
I do not wear makeup.
I do wear basketball shorts
and messy ponytails.
I am pressured to be her—
Aria.
I shave relentlessly
    for the next two years.

I am fifteen
    full of discomfort
    and anger
breaking my bones like they
    are glass
reckless rage—
all reckless no brave
    depraved of a home
    inside my own skin.

I am fifteen when I
learn what gender dysphoria is.

I am fifteen when I
    realize I am a boy
that I always have and will be
    a boy.

I am fifteen—
putting holes in wall and
    overdosing on advil
like it is a sport
championing my own self demise.

I am fifteen afraid and closeted—
I write my name as
ALEX
on my school assignments
I always change it back
before I turn them in.  

I am fifteen
    convinced everyone loves the girl
I am not
    and will never love me as the boy
I actually am.

I am sixteen crying on the floor
    of a psych ward
    this is my fifth hospitalization
in fourteen months.
Pretending to be her is
killing me.
I choke back tears as I tell
my mom that I am
transgender.
She tells me she loves me,
    and she saw me writing
    ALEX on my papers.

It will take five years
for her to let her daughter go.

I am seventeen when I am shoved
    to the floor in a men's bathroom
    slammed and slurred across the tile—
It will not be until six months into
    Hormone Replacement Therapy
that I use the men's public restroom.
I am eighteen when my moms boyfriend of the
time pulls me aside
and tells me I am making a mistake.
He would wear his mothers dresses and heels,
    hiding in her closet
    all of this is to say
    this is a phase.
When people say that this is a phase—
    I am sixteen
    sobbing on linoleum floors
    covered in cuts
    wanting nothing more than death
    if I have to pretend to be her
    for more than one second longer.

I am nineteen hopeful
    and naive.
Voice cracking and hair sprouting
    I am coming into my own body.
    I have learned that there
    are things much worse than needles.

I am twenty out of the
    ashes of abuse and trauma
    I am finally becoming
    the man I have always been
    meant to be.

The girl grew up.
Yes, she did.
She grew up to be a gorgeous woman.

That little girl that as a young boy.
You never want around to bother you.
Now is the apple of your eyes, as she stands before you.

Simply, because the girl grew up.

From the ponytails she wore.
To even with the braided hair.
From the things she did to ignore you.
From the time she showed interest in you.

The girl grew up.
To be a beautiful woman with a lovely smile.

You couldn't imagine you would be standing next to her.
You never imagine she would be the one you love.
Although others hinted you both liked one another.

But that was just their opinions.
Cause it was far from both of yours imagination.
Until you grew up to have common interest communication.

Yes, she grew up to claim your love.
Cause the girl grew up.

The sunset girls with warm smiles and sweet laughter. With ice cream, diamond earrings, diaries, romance movies under fluffy blankets, strawberry shortcake, lemonade made slightly too sour with a pink paper straw and perfect ice cubes.

The midnight girls with a wild side and messy hair. With perfect eyeliner, surprising laughs, black sketchbooks, late night ramen runs, stolen oversized sweatshirts, black cherries, fluffy socks under polished black combat boots tied in a neat little bow.

The sunrise girls with addicting voices and perfect high ponytails. With slogan t shirts, velvet scrunchies, red lip gloss, chocolate covered bananas, paintbrushes and easels, early morning hikes, coffee with creamer, foam, and probably too much sugar.

The sunshine girls with bright grins and  kind eyes. With light blushes, sweatpants, rainbow sprinkles, nails painted, flower tattoos, peaches and cream, messy bangs, sketchbooks probably covered in stickers and crop tops just short enough to tease, paired with cute bralettes.

I hear the laughter
I see the cheer
I feel the warmth
From ear to ear

We're all together
We're all the same
We're all playing
The very same game

And all around me
There are grins
Everyone's happy
Everyone wins

From ponytails
To sneaker soles
each of us chases
identical goals

We work and laugh
We're having fun
The road is rough
But we are one.

he tells me he'll buy me a white house
with a picket fence and i laugh because
it sounds so absurd to me
why would anyone want to live in
this plastic world of despair
i mean, maybe i'm judging it too hard
but i just can't see myself
driving a mini-van with two kids
crying in the backseat complaining
and calling me "mom" as if they their
mother-tongue was not Urdu
i can't do soccer games and ballet lessons
or wait every night at 8PM to have a
family dinner
i am not anyone's wife in an apron
and there is nothing wrong with choosing
the american dream
just that its a nightmare for me
i want to finger paint the house a
million shades of rainbow
i want to tie a braid in my hair
and lie under the sun
let it kiss me until i'm brown
and free.
i want my children to blast
bollywood and dance with me
no choreography, just love
i want a husband who falls in love
with my henna covered hands and
the way i smell of the sea
i can't see myself settling to a world
where everything looks just the same
or a man who loves me in a clean,
innocent way
i know this sounds stupid and i'm not
one for crazy romance but
laughing during *** and screaming during fights
is something that feels more than alright
i like the edge and the stability in knowing
that you're not going anywhere, we're going
everywhere
i want my children to climb on their father's back
and tickle him until he cries
i want them to paint his nails
and tie his hair in little ponytails
i want them to go to the beach and not worry
about getting sand in between their toes
i want them to wake up in the morning
with their messy hair and lopsided smiles
i want them to run around the house
the way their parents did
chasing each other only to fall
into each other's arms.

Growing up
we always ask ourselves
will I be rich
will I be wanted
will I be loved
will I be pretty
will I be pretty
and our mothers will say to us,
Darling, you are beautiful.
but the mirrors will gawk at us.
I want to be pretty
I want to be pretty
Darling, you are beautiful.
but the slits on our wrists
tell us otherwise, Mother.
The girls at school with their
bouncy blonde ponytails
they are so pretty
they are so pretty
and we will sulk in our rooms
with razors so sharp,
pleading to Mother,
I want to be *pretty

I was looking for the suitcase
one of those work trips
Staying at a sterile Ramada
TV blaring through fiber walls

Down the hall a door slams on sleep
My heart leaps like a squirrel
onto a New Jersey highway at rush hour

So much for –  “Have a pleasant stay.”

I lay thinking about road-****
alive-- then incongruous –  dead

Awake, listening to trucks
log their roar of rush
Then, whine to the distance – away

Awake, till I can smell
perfume of the maid's cart
masking evidence of people

Awake, hearing
twitter of Spanish
Smallish women in turquoise uniforms
long dark ponytails
cleaning rooms
like stalls in a cattle barn
Their faces make me long for home
somewhere –  
I am always longing
and never seem to be....

Anyway, I was looking for that suitcase
Found her dolls lying on it
and wondered when they got there
A day when I was working, no doubt

She must've looked at them
decided they were lost
in silly-sleep
beneath the basketball poster
beside the boom box
Sleeping with her childhood
in the cellar where....
_

Spring comes like a longing –  
for a moment
for a home

They were darling there –  
yellow romper, plaid sun-suit –

Same clothes as the day –

They, last saw her play....

z rodziną najsolidniej na zdięciach i w wspomnieniach / with family most solidly tied on photographs and in memories.

and to start off we have king george v
(1865 - 1936) - a doppelgänger of
tsar nicholas ii (1868 - 1918) -
indeed nice photographs but even nicer
photographs of the trenches -
perhaps the oedipus complex only works
on Wilhelms, notably the 2nd -
but dear oh dear O me - looking at them
looking as recordings by the duke of Edinburgh,
or should i say Count Edibletoothpick
as one man said: 'the joke was, i was to either
shove a hundred toothpicks up my ***
rather than get impaled, i chose the toothpick
torture...'
you call this a refined elocution?
most of the time i don't understand them -
ooh chirpy chirpy chow - neglected i call that
aristocratic tongue -
but for kings, queens, princes and princesses,
2nd cousins and all those lookalikes
(princess Eugenie is a blossom -
no fish-eyes in sight, i'm telling ye you
tractor handler, spur the mechanical beast
on into 5ft gear riding alongside
MOD scooters - 30 miles per hour and tears
in their eyes) -
anyway, indeed refined elocution,
a postage stamp on every american tongue,
or a lysergic acid get together of high society -
indeed refined elocution...
but these ornate in jewels crowns and fine linen
are beggars of vocabulary!
ten out of ten on elocution, two out of ten -
housed in glorious castles they have a vocabulary
of a moose (not insulting the moose of course) -
terrible riches in the vault of vocabulary -
the vault is like a street with a Frank Sinatra
muzak (elevator music) pennies from heaven,
it's not even the sort of quiz show altar for one
word kept too keenly remember,
usually a phobia, like the fear of beards
(what about the fear of bearded ladies?) -
pogonophobia - or the fear of ponytails? that too;
but then current news, gotta take a capital
stance: IN A PICKLE OVER LEAKING ART...
the ****** culprits,
Hi R St. scientists claim that dangerous
levels of formaldehyde are leaking
from the pickling of a cow and a shark -
b of the bang, a piece by doubting thomas
  heatherwok dismantled after spikes
  were falling, cost of construction £2 million,
  sold on a scrap heap for £17 thousand -
  sunflower seeds* by Wei Woo Hey
   created a health hazard with people
   walking on the porcelain seeds
   where one avid art admirer
   spotted the ghost of Spinoza in a corner -
dreamspace blew over and two people died
(by Maurice Assisi) -
   a huge umbrella by an anonymous artist
flew off and crushed a woman against a rock -
modern art, a killer - and this is still only
the third page of today's newspaper -
but imagine how a newspaper looked like
from thursday april 22nd 1926 -
well, it looked like footnotes and bibliographies
of books: tightly knit, even Sherlock Holmes
was reading it with a magnifying glass -
almost like terms & conditions sized print -
it wasn't so much a case for literacy but good
eyesight and a magnifying glass.

its an epidemic
of sickeningly perfect
parallel
red lines

its an epidemic
of sweatshirts
pulled far over hands
and pants
too long for the weather

its an epidemic
of numbers too high
almost as high
as ponytails of girls
on their knees in bathrooms

its an epidemic
of fake smiles
of two coats of foundation
over a red splotchy face;
finish it off with waterproof mascara
to hide the stains

its an epidemic
i know you know of it too

I remember when i was a little girl,
I was as brave as a lion,
And i knew i was perfect,
I didn't fear oiling my hair and wearing two ponytails,
Because i knew i looked pretty,
I had clear skin,
Slim belly, warm eyes,
Chubby cheeks, soft voice,
Pink lips!
And i knew my brown hair was amazing,
When i was a little girl,
I could do what i wanted,
I didn't really care what people thought,
I did know i could be smiling
and melt people's  hearts by just speaking a word,
Also i knew my heart was as pure as gold,
and mind as creative as Lord's creations.
Then i was a good girl,
And i only wept when i saw others sad,
But when i grew up,
I started being reckless,
Hating myself,
My skin had acne and my hair fell,
Yes i was sick mentally and physically,
No more my words melted hearts,
Instead they irritated people,
My smile now was no more real,
Instead it hid my fears, hatred, sadness,
But still my heart was pure,
Not as much as earlier, but pure!,
And mind still creative though a little dull,
But creative,
And yes i do weep when i see others sad,
But just silently,
Of course i over think and mess up things,
But maybe things were meant to be this way,
And my heart to drown within my soul,
And losing my self confidence,
But never losing hope!

Death came to see me today
It came so quickly
I had no time to say goodbye
I asked why now?
I'm young but I guess this is the plan
The man just pulled that trigger
Did he see me there?
I see mom looking down at me
Wish I could wipe her tears

I'm ready for school my ponytails are perfect
With my new shoes on I can't wait to show them to Julie
Standing in the front yard picking at the grass
I can see mom in the kitchen
Happens so fast one of my new shoes is flying off
I'm up in the air being pulled
It smells funny in here this man is rough
Death came to see me today
I had no time to say goodbye
That man seen me there

I occasionally see your marmalade  cat
and painted  stones
with  "I  love  you", dedicated to your friends,
sometimes you dispatch paper aeroplanes  to that effect,
overall your ponytails and mint teas means everything endearing
please don't  change
the  world circles  but 
your personage
continues to  be immense gift.