Recently
The person I am now dating
Has come to terms with
His own trans identity
When we met he looked like a girl
But I could sense something within him
Something that resonated with
My own confusing feelings of gender
I asked him if he was trans
And at that point
He used the term nonbinary
I felt really excited about this
Finally there was someone like me
Who definitely was not a woman
But never felt like a man either
It was actually just a space in his journey
And he eventually came out to me again
It's my first time having a boyfriend
Since coming to terms with my queerness
And I love him deeply
But it has not been easy
Mostly because of the fact that
His transition has led me
To come face-to-face with
My own repressed identity
I have to address and recognize
All of my internalized transphobia
Most of which is aimed at the mirror
Fueled by years of denying myself
While I am definitely not a woman
And have never felt like a man
A lot of the time I feel like a boy
And hope that I will pass as such
I am finally ready to really listen to me
And the needs of my identity
To resume my rightful path
On the road to being myself again

My friends have cross tattoos
Verses on wrists and calves,
Hands pierced with nails-
Symbols of a love craved.
But never found; not where
It was promised. Some doors
Don't open, despite the desperate knock.
So we draw the door on our skin.
We're getting closer now,
My friends and I, closer to a life
Without end, to love without condition.
This love we were on our skin

Are we still here
Are we still loving.
Were we as lost as they said?

i.
I am a short, stout girl in the corner of the room
my arms were much smaller last June
I search for reasons not to relapse in shadows like corpses
they're all dead, anyway
because my roommate is obsessed with the gym
because my best friend is obsessed with fad diets
even though I have at least fifty pounds on both of them.

ii.
I am forcing myself to use recovery speech
because it gets me through therapy more effectively
"fat is not a feeling"
my mind scoffs as I speak
every word copied and pasted from someone else's recovery blog
but my recovery is not avocados and yoga mats and veganism
it is complicated
it is painful.

iii.
I am the small, queer girl in the pew at church
so nervous as the skin around my nails begin to bleed
the scar on my ******* says "*******"
to American evangelicalism
and yet my lips still sing the loudest
the product of the "moral right"
how lovely it is to pretend to belong.

iv.
I am acting like my body knows what it is doing
as I reach for the hands of my most recent lover
I drop hints to my Republican parents
church members
best friend
but still,
I am struggling.

v.
I am trying to undo the codification of bulimia
from the fibers of my bones
I relearn daily
spun like wool through the continuum
of someone else's broken body
I become a success story
for some
but for others
I am still fat.

vi.
I want my eating disorder
my abuse
my queerness
to look normal
to be typical
some say
assimilation is liberation
so why do I still feel
chained and bound?
why am I still
unfinished?

A crying infant,
hushed by the soft,
murderous hands
of an angel
doing nothing
more than abiding by
the laws of State.
A State
that will soon
put out
an amber alert
for a would-be child
that will never be found.

A grieving woman
in an era of
naivete and lies
cannot be suspect
of a crime
that defies that of which
she is, a mother
to a missing child.
But prints are fact
and thoughts are not,
so..
the inevitable will occur:
a vacant cell
will soon find
company, and a body
will also soon
become vacant,
like the womb
that shed
the life it once bore.

"I ******* hate you",
and its of no surprise.
One finding
comfort in those
who are seeking
comfort. Lost
and developing
presence in
a crowd that
acknowledges
the "new".

A child losing themselves
in the haze of
an aloof run, towards
a blinding light which
will only cause
them to stray
from the path they
were once on.
An action
that will inevitably go
unnoticed
due to ignorance
caused by the
excitement of
happiness.

A mother in a daze
of content
smothered her child
with love,
involuntary manslaughter.

One can never be too cautious when committing a crime of passion, but, on the other hand, one can never be cautious when it comes to passion.
Romance and Tragedy: Conflicting ideologies collapsing infinitely, in a state only curable by the latter. Realities stitched together with life and lives.
The condition of love.

The sky was filled with cumulonimbus clouds as they threatened to give way any time. Looking out of the window, I let out a little sigh.

Picking up my cup of cappuccino, I sipped it while opening a new tab to my email inbox.

The clouds remind me of you.

I hope you’re doing fine.

Things have been different ever since you went away, but I’m still trying to adjust to the current situation.

I remembered how I had first met you when you came to the bar where I was working as a barista.

It was raining that day and the café had fewer customers as compared to usual days.

You came in with an expressionless face and chose to sit at the furthest end of the counter – away from most of the crowd.

Shivering a little, you made eye contact with me and called me over.

You ordered something on the café’s hidden menu – Espresso with a hint of milk.

That was when we first started conversing.

“May I have an espresso with a hint of milk?”

“I’m surprised.”

“Sorry?”

“This is your first time coming here, isn’t it? Yet you are aware of our hidden menu.”

“I’m more surprised by how you’d know it’s my first time here.”

I brought your order and you gave me a smile so bright it stunned me.

It was really different from when you first stepped into the café.

“I like it here.”

I returned a smile and went back to my job.

From then on, you came quite often.

I’m not sure if it’s because you liked the atmosphere in the café but I was indeed elated to see you make return trips here.

Slowly, we started to chat more often whenever you came over and found out more about each other.

I loved animals.

You didn’t really take a liking to them.

Both of us love the aroma of coffee beans.

I hated whipped cream.

You loved it.

I liked bright colours.

You liked the monochrome range.

Your parents were hardly home.

My parents were always home.

I had siblings.

You were an only child.

I trusted people easily.

You never did until you really know them.

I liked being in a crowd.

You preferred solitude.

I joked that it’s because you liked solitude which was why you chose this particular seat.

You grinned at me, not saying a word.

Yet I knew what you wanted to say.

That’s right, Bingo.

You’d only order Espresso with a hint of milk.

It was always the same.

When we had few customers, I’d just lean on the counter and talk to you, watch you sip your espresso gracefully and letting out a contended sigh.

“I love the espresso here.”

“But why do you want a hint of milk in it?”

“I wanted to cover up part of the bitterness.”

“That’s so weird.”

“But that’s how I like my espressos.”

“Hmmm~ I only drink cappuccino.”

“And you’re working as a barista in a café. That’s weirder.”

“No it isn’t!”

I guess it was your queerness that attracted me.

After a period of time, we got closer and closer to each other.

That was also when we started going out for meals whenever I had the day off.

We built an unbreakable bond over the years.

But we were forced to separate.

Neither of us had control over it.

You

  
            Just
                


Left.

Things just changed.

I was in too much shock to respond when I heard what happened to you.

I tried to deny things.

But it was impossible.

I’d never have you by my side ever again.

I have been trying to comfort myself ever since then, telling myself that you would still be somewhere out there.

Watching over me.

Protecting me.

I hope you’re doing fine.

Maybe I’d meet you some day.




























If only Heaven accepted e-mails, I’d send you one everyday.

P.S. I really miss you.

P.P.S. A lot.

Thank you, please, I'm sorry, OK!
This is the **** I've learned to say every day.
You handed me your boyfriend like a present
But wouldn't share with me 1 non-incriminating secret?
You're welcome, sure, it's cool, alrighty,
this is the sensual might of my aphrodite
you interrupt my stories, tell me i'm a mess,
then call me the person who understands you best

If your cracking laugh, loud as a bark
didn't bend me over like a punch to the spleen
defiled again! my own clumsy fault, i suppose
If your approval of my paintings
didn't heat my thighs and send me reeling.
death in my pillow and loss soaking my clothes

I wouldn't have cared if it was just a dumb mistake,
But I smell your poison, heavy in the air
And my throat swallows as much as you want it to take
After years of sharing every horror story
You have not even begun to know me

Or don't you care about shattering this trust?
We are out of supplies needed to rebuild our bridge.
Hovering in anticipation, waiting for you to settle all this dust
But you won't offer a thing that's not inside your fridge.

And I still don't know how to leave you
The myths of queerness are not at all true
Girls might steal as much as they want from me, too
It's all some people know how to do

You said, in small text:

<p>OKAY. Let’s talk about this. </p>

<p>✨CW: transphobia, mental health stuff, strong language✨</p>

<p>[Reblog the hell out of this post. It’s about to be important].</p>

<p>I woke up this morning to my girlfriend, my partner-in-crime, my best friend, my favorite bean, sending me this photo. She couldn’t believe that it was real and thought that I was playing some sick joke. </p>

<p>Good ******* morning. </p>

<p>Listen up, whoever you are, you entitled little ****. Your opinions, attractions, desires, whatever they are - they DO NOT MATTER. Assuming, based on the context of your post, that you identify as a guy, let me just say this: </p>

<p>You are a small man. You’re using the guise of anonymity to objectify a radiant woman whose depth and breadth you can’t ever begin to comprehend - and I’m not just saying that because she’s mine. You’re also transphobic as **** - and clearly don’t understand that trans-ness and genitalia are actually (and often) far removed from each other. </p>

<p>I’d like to think that I don’t need to explain why the comment “your girl ain’t a girl no more” (in addition to being grammatically terrible) is NOT acceptable, but in case I do, here is MY two cents on the matter of MYSELF. </p>

<p>I fought for this body. I bled for this consciousness, I shined light into places in me that I didn’t know existed and found depression, dysphoria, trauma, and loads of anxiety. I nearly died for this body. If it hadn’t been for a select few people who saw me for the love I was worth, I wouldn’t be alive to write this post. That’s not an exaggeration, it’s a fact. </p>

<p>I’m telling you, stranger, this because there is more behind your words than you know. Each time you take your privilege and cishetero advantage for granted and allow misguided, bigoted words to fall out of your disgusting face-hole or fingertips, you’re reminding me of how I almost died for this body and consciousness. How my girlfriend and countless others like us have been subject to vast physical and mental torment for our queerness, our trans-ness, our SELVES.</p>

<p>I’m addressing you not as you, but as the mass of people you represent. I’m posting this on behalf of the 22 trans people who were murdered last year because of ignorance like yours. I’m posting this on behalf of feminine-identified people everywhere who deal with the wrath of objectification, sexism, and violence that your very actions embody and permit. </p>

<p>

Sustainably globally gay – we need more of it / socially-conscious progressive group-think / openness through tolerance of diversity in perversity / justice for more more more of gay gay gay / it’s progress it’s now its queer-friendly because it's sustainably globally gay / when gay gets gayer the queering gets clearer / so let's start the conversation about ****-**** gayness / inclusion through cluelessness in transparent openness / by the way - get GAY / before the homosexual conversation queers the queerness of the ongoing conversation / let's celebrate gayness, **OK ?

My prayer looks like I stutter in front of the dinner table
My prayer looks like thankyouforthisfoodamen
My prayer looks like gets nervous talking in front of people
My prayer looks like two-faced ***** who can't be trusted
My prayer looks like a God I've been taught not to relate to
My prayer looks like I'm cherry picking the Bible
My prayer looks like justifying my queerness
My prayer looks like I'll die trying
My prayer looks like why is my theology less legitimate than yours?
My prayer looks like wound in the flesh
Looks like begging God to stop boys from abusing me
Looks like begging God to strengthen the tendons in my wrist so I can fight back next time
Looks like begging God to put an end to the next times
My prayer looks like plucking fists out of my father's mouth
My prayer looks like domestic violence is not just physical
My prayer looks like ****** violence is not just ****
My prayer looks like I want to call the boy who assaulted me a ******
My prayer looks like I want a better word for what he did to me
My prayer looks like I wish he hurt me and left cuts and bruises
My prayer looks like maybe then, they would have believed me
My prayer looks trying to explain **** culture to my daddy
My prayer looks like fighting back tears when he says victim blaming is over exaggerated
My prayer looks like fighting back tears when his next sentence is how women need to be more careful instead
My prayer looks like forgetting how to pray
My prayer looks like losing my faith
My prayer looks like mourning for what I have lost
My prayer looks like fearing my father
My prayer looks like loving my father
My prayer looks like I just want someone to believe me
My prayer looks like I've only been taught to be sorry
My prayer looks like it is not my fault anymore
My prayer has been decorated in doilies and daffodils
My prayer is told it's just a little girl, to sit down
My prayer has been told it won't change anything
My prayer holds a loaded gun
My prayer can change the world
My prayer isn't sorry anymore
My prayer isn't sorry.

We all have a different story.
White male, sophomore says
His father told him all **** should be shot on site
So these words continue to constrict his neck like a noose
Making it impossible for him to breathe
Giving him no room to live
Like the conversion camp he was sent to over and over again
It leaves cuts that have yet to turn into scars.

We all have a different story.
White female, junior tells
How the emails kept popping up on her screen
Like unwanted blemishes that she could scrape off
One by one.
Church members chastising her
Because their favorite boy
Had just been accused of thrusting the life out of her
She is covered in "are you sure you weren't asking for it?"
She's sure.
Blood on her hands that spells out the word ****
And she lathers her body
Drowns herself in it
Until an unassuming girl is able to be her life preserver
But they still have to pretend to be
"Just friends"

We all have a different story.
Me?
So used to hearing
"You can't love both."
So used to hearing
"You can't even love yourself."
Now I live in a world
Where man, woman, no gender can love me
Because I make myself too prickly to touch
Whenever someone comes too close
I turn into a cactus
Because how could anyone possibly love someone
Who has been taken advantage so many times
That she cannot find it in her heart
To make love to someone
She has *** with them
But there is no love
But there is no passion at all.

We all have a different story.
Being queer in an evangelical community
Is like being raw meat
In a dog house.
They can smell you from a mile away
Ready for the ****
Do not stab your knife into me
In the kindest way you can think of
By telling me
"I'll pray for you."
Do not pour your poison into my body
By saying
"God loves the sinner but hates the sin."
My existence is no accident
My queerness is not my choice
You wonder why so many
Lesbian gay bisexual transgender questioning youth
Abandon the church?
It is not because of God
It is because these congregations keep playing God
This is the same **** story.
Do you know how hard it is the find an accepting church community?
It is a suicide mission
As I walk into the congregation
Arms open, eyes closed
Waiting to be embraced
Or shot on site.

Cleopatra, you hold your rose
So distant, but also so close
From your fertile feline *******
As you nonchalantly rest
Enjoying these men’s final breaths.

Your beauty is hellenistic
Plague of Troy, yet, Spartan grace
You breathlessly in your embrace
Pierce their left hearts, o,despotic
Queen of Egypt, bride of The End

Your exposed ***** still displays
Your bored wetness and cruelty
So they can picture the foreplays
They will last see in Agony
“Mercy, iconic royalty!’’

Your maiden’s body at your side
Is shaken by Thanatos’ tide
For she knows about your queerness
Melting in this morbid madness
For your cruel carnal caress









Queer Queen, bitten you have become
Enslaved and bound to a man’s Rome
So a snake to touch you chose
Let me tell you Damascus rose
You fell for Marc’s male-female love!

For the ******* perfume you drank
Humiliated in your chambers
Do you feel the burning embers
You have been marked with, and the fers
To defend and keep your high rank!



April 7, 2015,
Riverside, California

When your head is nice and clear
In the morning there is nothing to fear
You create memory's which you hold dear
For everything is awakening

What amazes me is the clearness
It brings me some queerness
There is a lot of quietness
It is gorgeous

Morning is most enjoyed outside
Once you leave your house you won't abide
You hear many creatures
You are one with nature
Certain people mature
When in this isolated state
You feel great

To the Poet Matthew Dickman



When you mentioned a crow
I thought of Allan Poe
Yet your words wielded
Allan Ginsberg’s queerness
Your awesome Americanness
Shuffled Allan’s wit
With your heart and gut.

You gave us a performance
But none of that heart and flowers
Romance
You were real and raw
On paper, in person
Personifying
Writing about it all.

Out of your world came out
The ardent desire to feed the pyre
Of ravenous demanding poetry
With no rhymes but sentences
A sentence which sent on death row
The rest of the worlds I heard today.

Words are wasted but yours resembled
A cherry-shed coke’s can, vintage 1975.

Lyon, November 6, 2016

i am from
chipped yellow nail polish
i am from
i love you i love you i love you
i am from
because once is never enough
i am from
bare feet on the driveway
i am from
shooting stars and full moons
i am from
the rolling stones on vinyl
i am from
poetry books and lavender tea
i am from
vines encapsulating the brick walls
i am from
lazy sundays
i am from
brown eyes
i am from
never enough snow days
i am from
pausing and rewinding movies
i am from
where time moves a bit slower
i am from
queerness
i am from
mom, i’m sorry
i am from
i love you i love you i love you
i am from
because once is never enough

Donny's gay intonations weren't lost on the priest who agreed that, Hairy *** Truman's grave MUST be desecrated! if we're ever going to face Japanese party boysenberries with a clean mind & warm heart. The dew on the grass was gone when Donny woke in a pool of his own ***** (not just his *****, but his own *****, not somebody else's *****). What a night! A night of queerness that made every other night of queerness evaporate like the dew (previously referenced). “Donny, you're such a queen!” The guy collecting tolls for the Pennsylvania turnpike said.  (What's it called when somebody collects tolls? Oh yeah, toll-collecting!) “I know it,” Donny said as he held back his own ***** (not the ***** of the toll collector). “Smell your *** **** later,” the toll collector said playfully. “You too,” Donny replied as he committed suicide.

Baby girl
I love your wide hips, thick lips and how you try to cover up your weakness
See it's only a matter of time till you realise that you **** this
And my eyes are blessed to witness
Your brown skin, your crown Queen
Girl you're sure to win
And in your direction blows the wind
Paying homage to your every single thin'
Your smile isn't a sin
And though you hide it, it is always what I'm seekin'
Blessed at every moment you are breathin'
Darling i adore your sweetness
You're a sweet mess
Your queerness
How i wish to die in your wilderness
And well los’ the rest
You're my princess
But you will never be in distress
And if you are, you'll be able to deattach
Free at last

i cannot unwind the
rage from my queerness,
just as i cannot escape the
chokehold that fear has on
my transness

this body of mine is holy
in that i have built myself
from the ground up

but this body of mine is
also so hated because i refused
to become a statistic

i am not going to do people
that want me dead the favor
of snuffing out my own light
before my time

in one form or another, those
like me have always existed,
and will continue to do so

through every stubbled cheek caressed,
every knuckle bloodied,
every testosterone injection,
and every time i recognized that man
in the mirror as who i was always
really meant to be

i will not be erased,
my brothers
and sisters
and siblings
will not be erased

i have eaten too many matches for
this fire in me to ever burn out

She was captivating.
She forced you to reconcile
with your name
and the word queer
together for the first time.

It was new and you
only spoke it into existence
for her.
A vulnerability impossible to escape,
but you weren't worried.

She had pretty teeth
and thick eyebrows.
You felt an insurmountable
amount of love for her in a month,
than you had felt for any boy ever.

You weren't worried
until you were.
Women are gentile and kind.
They are caring and safe.
Until they're not.

You are fifteen.
Living behind closet doors,
thick enough to mask your queerness.
It squeaks when it opens,
you prefer it closed.

Your father explained the word, "disown"
with examples.
"Like, if you're a **** you have to move out."
She used that as a stick
to beat you with.

You cry, knees to chest in the shower.
She's told everyone,
while she manipulates and forces
you to believe you're guilty
of being embarrassed of her.

So you begin beating
on the closet doors,
every beating.
No one can hear your screams.
Part of you still doesn't want them to.

You could try calling the police,
but who would believe
a woman is beating another woman.
Besides,
there's no service in this closet.

You learn about domestic violence
from your parents.
They say they'd protect you.
But if they knew
they'd beat you back into silence.

If a tree
collapses in the middle of the forest
with bruises from someone
that isn't a husband,
or a boyfriend,
or a man at all,
Is she still a victim?
is the collision enough
to break down a closet door?

no poem with compares
to the stinging suddenly
up of what upward airs.
a moon half corporally

has by slow instant chance
itself in utterly nearness
2 on satin shoulders dance.
with no abrogate: queerness,

its indistinct afterglow
hugely downward under
openly golden star's grow.
has not by chance asunder,

the littlest death of bells,
to mountain quiver as rivers and in dells.

Run for fun, but "cower"
Spent in countless hours...,
Process of strange power,
Rained me up like shower...,
Stuck, have no more chance,
But, can't stop my heart dance...,
#thought #cower #queerness