I’ve been reading a lot about forgiveness lately. 
And I suppose you’re on the list of people I need to forgive.

I once read that you can’t forgive people while they’re still hurting you.
Which is why I’ve cut some people out of my life this year.
Yet of course, you don’t budge when I try to remove you.

It’s people like you I find hardest to forgive
where your wrongness is entrenched deep in your skull
my psychologist mother taught me how to spot a Grade-A narcissist.

My religion says I should forgive you
that I have been forgiven of so many wrongs I should return the favor
and while I don’t disagree with the wrongs,
how does an imperfect mortal forgive such monumetal sins?

And so I don’t even want to pretend anymore
I want to spread horrible rumors
and watch in satisfaction as it dawns on you you’ve crossed a line I can’t ignore.

Will I though?
Of course not.
I’ll write poems about how much I hate you (keeping the you anonymous)
and I’ll keep reading about forgiveness
trying desperately to erase what you make me feel.

satisfying snap

Satin petals of
burgundy cosmos
sway in synchrony,
a dance with many dancers.
Petals cupped upward
to catch and glean
the sun.
Leaves of pasted feathers
along the stems
delicate, keeping tempo,
early morning adagio.

I make the reservations

to see

my trans sisters next month.

I missed meeting up with them

last October

and back in March.

And I still can’t relax

and let myself enjoy this

until we arrive.

Can’t feel the joy of

anticipation

until I know

beyond a shadow of a doubt

that this is happening.

I am waiting for something else

at work

or with my family

to fall apart

and force me

to cancel again.

My needs always come last.

Being closeted,

I can’t tell my family

where I’m truly going

or why it means so much to me,

how these trips are

the deep breath of fresh air

that gets me through the rest of the year,

a week of being my true self without fear.

I haven’t femmed up all year,

not since New Year’s Eve.

I miss being in my feminine skin.

But I also fear it.

The long process

of putting myself together.

The low level anxiety

that lurks just beneath the joy.

The fears of not looking

like how I feel inside,

of being rejected,

etc.

My inner girl is aching.

I try to comfort her

and honor her

and spoil her

as best I can.

But I know I’m not giving her enough time.

Resuming electrolysis

means there’s only one day a week

I can actually shave

and put on makeup.

I usually miss that window.

I am trying to let go of perfection,

to embrace a more genderqueer

or nonbinary look,

to let myself wear

lipstick and eye makeup

around the house

even if I have a beard.

I love this second soul

who shares my body.

I want her to be happy.

I want her to thrive.

I feel like I am failing her.

But I am trying.

Dear God, how I’m trying.

We bought for our cat, Zorro, a flying squirrel toy not long ago.
Its webbed arms spread wide looking like little wings,
small defined paws, a plump body with a fluffy long tail,
realistic coloring,
very cute

Over time Zorro has developed the habit
of bringing this toy all over the house.
The once buoyant tail, now stringy thin,
And its overall rounded body, now a bit deflated

It is often dangling from Zorro’s jaws
as he leaps up on to our bed at night
He trots into every room we occupy
until we turn to acknowledge
his almost painful sounding wild-meow cries
that he makes with it tightly clinched
between his teeth.

Other times
He plants it deliberately
in the middle of a room, hallway or on the stair.
When I discover it underfoot
I jump a little as it now looks
like authentic rodent road kill,
its little pink paws reaching
out as though flattened by a tire

I have wondered
if Zorro’s positioning of this toy
is a sign of love or an indication
of dominance over our shared spaces?
What I conclude, due to this toy,
is that Zorro without a doubt
has an inner monologue concerning
this world we share with him.

As he decides what to do next
with the flying squirrel–
his cat mind takes over and he
figures out the best way to communicate
how much he loves us, and beyond that
also let us know that
He knows we love him!
Its all pretty clear to me now.

At the end of my tenth session of the day
I gather the crinkling handles of the bag
lining my office trashcan and lift.
The bottom catches on the rattan basket,
a small hole dripping something sinister
gently on the carpet.
My client’s eyes drift from the contents
to the splish-splash,
to my gaze and back again,
fear creeping between their brow.
Seven empty Sugar-Free Redbull corpses 
clink against a tin of Tuna To-Go.
I want to say, “Don’t worry.”
I want to say, “Not FDA recommended.”
I want to say, “Long day.”
I want to say, “Your therapist has a therapist.”
I use the toe of my shoe to rub
the seeping substance in
to the thick fibers of the flooring.
I flick the light switch. 
I lock the door behind us as we drift to the hall
then the parking lot.
I smile, “Have a wonderful weekend,” 
as I power walk to the dumpster out back.
The last sip of caffeinated liquid dribbles on my pants.
I finally get in my car to go home
to take my Ambien and eat a microwave dinner
if it doesn’t take too long to heat up.
Eager to watch my true crime while I doom scroll online
until it’s Monday again and I’m masked enough
and Vyvansed and energy-drunk to the Gods.
Summer heat clinging to my glasses,
I lick the fog off the lenses
with my lapping, feral tongue.
“Siri, call Mom on speaker phone.”
I reverse from my parking spot
into a bush. 

There is a better poem here 
underneath the layers
of self doubt and questioning
line breaks, behind 
the veil of writer’s block. 
I’ve written three scrapped
poems before this one,
and I’m still disatisfied
with my results.
I’ll just keep digging 
until I discover what 
I’m looking for. 
Maybe I’ll find it soon. 

The sun hot on my skin

Reminds me of your hands

The breeze coming through

Smells like your cologne

No clouds in the sky, just blue

Reminds me of your eyes

I wonder how long

This longing will last

When you will fade

And leave my brain room

To see a world

Without you

I was sweeping off my porch when I thought I heard a tiny shout

I sat my broom aside and decided to check it out

when looking all around I saw him standing in a tiny door

he was living in a mushroom so I crouched down to see more

he said his name was Alder and he hoped I wasnt mad

I assured him he as welcomed and that I was really glad

when I step outside each morning I greet my new friend

I also remember to whisper goodnight at the days end

biofield reveals minute cracks