Wrote Something Good The Other Day
aint no use
trying to pull it out.
the blank
of my mind
holds on,
so it’s gone
it is gone
it is gone.
aint no use
trying to pull it out.
the blank
of my mind
holds on,
so it’s gone
it is gone
it is gone.
I envy the children and teenagers
who already know who they are.
I’m jealous of those
who transition in their twenties,
still able to enjoy their youth,
their lives not yet stolen from them.
As much as they give me hope,
the Transformation Thursday
and Throwback Tuesday
social media posts
torture me.
Pictures of bearded men
now living as beautiful women.
And I just want so badly
to get to that part of my life,
or even just to know
for certain
that it’s coming.
I didn’t know I was trans
at 5 or 12 or 18,
more like 30.
And it’s been
a beautiful, scary journey.
But I want to be called
by my real name now,
my real pronouns.
I want to be more
than the illusion
I let people
project onto me.
I’m not great at escapes,
though,
plotting my way
out of this life
and into the next one.
And the timeline keeps getting
pushed back,
sentenced to a male life
for longer and longer.
I envy those
who identify as one gender,
not having to switch
or live with duality.
I’m so tired of only feeling
and looking like myself
on the odd night
or weekend.
I’m jealous of those older than me
by a decade or more
who are living
as their authentic selves,
who have already crawled through hell
to get there,
who have already lost
partners, homes, friends, family, careers
and the worst is over.
While I still have all of that
to face.
I don’t want to wait
until my fifties
or sixties
for my life to begin
when my body already feels
like it’s wearing out now.
I’m tired of waiting for
everyone to die
so I can live my truth.
I try to hold onto
the hope
and the patience
that every trans woman needs
to survive in this world.
Now I lay me down to sleep
If not for teachers no counting sheep
I pray their safety Lord you keep
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord from harm you keep
Now I lay me down to sleep
If I die before I wake
I pray lessons be prepared for our sake
Amen.
A reflection of a memory
blurred and hazed
she is me
I am her
Our emotions
called everything
but healthy
normal not in the vocabulary
she’s too much
Shes a hard one to deal with
she’s a cry baby
25 and I’m still crying
holding my 2 month old
Who also has a fragil heart
I already see fimilar expressions
the ones I’ve caught in my reflections
I look at her
tear stained
and I know she’s looking at me
my tears now scars as they pour down my cheeks
I.
A shark without teeth.
A bicycle without wheels.
A kid without energy.
A poem without poetry.
II.
Some would say coward.
Others might spray traitor.
None would agree patriot.
III.
Let me see your war face.
R. Lee Ermey demanded this of Private Joker in Full Metal Jacket.
I loved it at the time without realizing—I never wrote down war face on a Christmas list.
Being a killer wasn’t a goal of mine.
Defender was.
It’s not polite to end a sentence with a preposition.
Then again, neither is inhaling someone’s last breath.
I wanted to defend others from tyranny, oppression, and the lifestyles of the rich and famous.
Hell, that’s what I thought I was doing.
In the end, I discovered I was the great and powerless Oz behind the curtain of my own perspective.
Because the only rights I defended belong to active shooters.
Did he really suffer for his sanity?
Would they be gentlemen of Japan if we didn’t want to know who they were?
What if the clowns never show up?
How will the story turn out if we don’t call him Ishmael?
What if he never left that good job in the city?
What would she do if she could actually get that spot out?
Why doesn’t he just check with PVA to find out whose woods these are–and where exactly is his house in the village?
Two words: Search engine,
Because sometimes we’ll settle for any answer,
Even if it’s wrong.
1.
There once was a woman named Cher
Who would eat nothing but hair
Braided and roasted
Twisted and toasted
Even raw from the back of a bear
2.
There once was a boy named Scooter
Who was born a rather fine tooter
Yes he could pass gas
Both slow and quite fast
Praise be he wasn’t a crapshooter
3.
There once was a fish who could sing
That little guy really could swing
Shaking his tail
Yodel and wail
While working his tiny G-string
I still know all the words to “Cinema.”
And I still remember exactly how you did your makeup,
Which perplexed me because I did mine the exact opposite.
I still know all the words to Harry’s House, actually.
And I still remember how your enthusiasm was unmatched,
Which perplexed me because I am so insanely pessimistic.
I still know that I fucked up.
And I still know that you’re one of the greatest things that ever came into my life.
I know now that I am no better,
And that I am no worse
Than anyone else who abandoned you.
I just hope that it no longer hurts.
A small town band on stage
Over priced drinks and short dresses
Grandmas dancing,
And the smell of fries in the air
It’s starting to get chilly,
The perfect time for a sweatshirt
The buzz feels like it’s lasting ages,
And the dance floor is calling your name
Sunburns and frizzy hair,
Sunglasses and flip flops
Laughter is louder than the band,
And your eyes as green as the river
