dysphoria

Justification

I won’t to be your princess

I rule my own damn castle.

 

/I refuse to be your statistic/

I am flesh, blood, bone, human.

Hear me fucking roar.

 

Don’t make me the object

of your hidden desire, sheathed

neatly, behind excuses

and defenses,

 

you paint them like I give a shit

or asked for this

or asked for you ––

I fucking didn’t.

 

It’s not me who begged for the validation

of your desire,

didn’t ask to press my stomach to yours in defeat

at the gravesite where you bury

your secrets like me,

 

I’m not your therapist,

won’t fix your broken wing

won’t justify myself to you.

 

Today

for the last time

she will make her bed in defeat

 

Tomorrow

for the first time

she will raise her arms to the heavens instead

 

She will live

with no justification.

Beings Trans in the Healthcare System: A Poem

Today I visited a doctor
and was surprised when he actually addressed what was wrong.
I was able to look him in the eyes,
joke with him about where we went to college,
and know that the tests he scheduled for me
were meant to address my worries and wellbeing.
I left with the unfamiliar feeling
of my needs being met.

Yesterday I visited a doctor
and he told me to undress for an audience.
He told me he wanted to examine my genitalia for growth
after telling me we were all going to become a family.
He held me hostage for six hours,
I was asked if I had grown a dick yet,
if my father was okay with this decision,
if I ever had an identity crisis,
if my transition made me want to stop having sex with men,
if I ever tried to kill myself,
what my breast size was –
while he was examining my breasts.
he laid me out on his examination table
and when I refused to continue to be his science experiment
he sent me for an ultrasound and told me
to come back in three weeks.
If I had shed all my clothes
and bore my naked self in front of him
like he had requested me to do,
he would have molested me.
How do I know?
He told me.

Drowned

I took a day to choose my name

To make my voice shake loud

They tell me that I’m just the same

 

They lay the bricks to place the blame

To feel no reason to be proud

I took a day to choose my name

 

The fortunate will win the game

To fit into the crowd

They tell me that I’m just the same

 

They laugh and start to take their aim

Their anger still avowed

I took a day to choose my name

 

All the advancing changes came

I feel as though I’ve drowned

They tell me that I’m just the same

 

You find our truth is just a game

A reticence endowed

I took a day to choose my name

They tell me that I’m just the same.

A Girl’s Lunchbox

First grade, first day, six years old. I have golden locks that fall to my chin and a pink shirt. My lunchbox, soft fabric, is covered in tiny purple and blue and red flowers. I place it in my cubby with my backpack. There’s probably a sandwich inside. Pretzels, apple slices, a bottle of water. It’s a normal lunchbox. I’m a normal kid; this is a normal first day.

So when we go to lunch I’m surprised at the angry voice that comes from across the room.

“You got a girl shirt and a girl lunchbox.” Forgetting these words, or their impact, is not an option for me.

Angie is a tall girl with plastic clips in her hair and a shirt not too different from mine. She is well-liked by everyone, even the teacher. Her voice, the cutting edge of her words, take me aback. She’s not the first person to police my expression, and she’s not the last. But it is a delicate moment of first-day fragility. I am scared. And because I am different, I’m vulnerable too.

Shame. Shame is what I feel. Shame for who I am and the clothes I wear. I put my lunchbox back into my cubby without eating and I fold my arms across my shirt for the rest of the day. I feel like I’ve made some crucial mistake. I feel like a joke.

 

honesty

Bed Linen, Awake, Crumpled, Sheets, Bedsheets

 

i. in which we realize that we are both here for the same reason

 

And what a reason it is: the reason of wordlessness. We have never met and we smell like each other; that is to say, like nothing at all. I’ve always been proud alone, but if I smiled with your teeth I would never cover my mouth in public. You look like the fantasy someone least expects, and my own kiltering ego, in boldly taking possession of your softness, begins, at last, to romanticize itself.

 

ii. in which we disagree

 

It hurts less to think that we contrast, more to know that there are ways in which neither of us will agree nor oppose, but rather differ, out of tandem, making us both as tired as that goddamn metaphor of mismatched puzzle pieces. Like that, for instance. Like the fact that you don’t mind cliches, and it’s not that I care about them, either, it’s just that seeing one on paper makes me want to burn it, or myself, whichever the moment deems more indulgent.

 

iii. in which i experiment with pronouns

In all honesty, if even that much can be said, it isn’t so much the she/they/he as it is the I/we/you, the revulsion at claiming a stake in anything so concrete as language. The word me sounds like the spots on my skin that make me sick to look at. The word you sounds like a sea-shaped abstraction, the same soft echoing vowels as nobody, who is, after all, the one for which I write: I think that I will never love a person quite so much as I love the notion of bodilessness, holiness or wholiness or something like that—which, if it does exist at all, must surely be found in the bits of fraying memory where one of us ends and the other, however ostensibly, might just end as well.

Little Gay Comix: #1 – Mood Boost

Sometimes one person is all it takes.

etymology

passionfruit, flower

we are on the periphery of something —

passionfruit. passionfruit. who named it —

passionfruit? some straight man it is

always a straight man it was a

straight man for me was it a straight man

for you?

 

let me try again:

do you ever want to slice open the bags under your eyes

and find what bloats them? maybe the

wet-hot on your cheeks would feel like the tears

that you can only ever muster when you’re drunk.

 

smoke? you want to smoke? i can’t it doesn’t

numb it makes me feel too much the weight and

the absence the wait and the absence and

shit fuck god damn it i am going to

be late for class again, you see i woke soaked in

blood again i forgot yes forgot i always forget that

my body does this.

 

Fat & Trans: Celebrating the Double-Dysphoric Body

Between being trans and being fat, I’ve felt a “double dysphoria” when it comes to my body. It’s time to spread love for the fat trans body!

As a trans man, I am often fed by the media who I am supposed to be and how I am supposed to look.

As a fat person, I am often fed by the media who I am supposed to be and how I am supposed to look.

Between the two, I really feel like I can’t win.

I have been dealing with some form of self doubt and body dysphoria for my entire life. Something about the skin I’m in hasn’t felt quite right. It causes me to doubt that people can be attracted to me because I don’t fit the categories they wish me to fit. I’m afraid I’m not “man” enough because I have breasts. However, I’m also afraid I’m not “human” enough because I weigh over 200 pounds and stand at 5’2.

Let me explain.

sabertooth: four stanzas on gender dysphoria

i don’t know but i but i’ve been

enthralled with anatomy textbooks since i was a girl and i’ve always

thought it would be delicate, somehow, to have

tattoo needles trace other skeletons onto my own,

emblazon me with the teeth of extinct species,

explicate this sweaty contemporaneity and wire together

a preservation of imagined once-perfection.

 

some things stay some things do stay the movement of

a score of a stomach of a sadness and i always told myself

the worst of things.

hitting breaking screaming conflicting,

hurting so i could hate myself want myself dead without

feeling guilty.

 

consume imbibe poison. eat the rock in your hand.

eat the food from the ground, lick the

frozen pole just once just to have someone else speak for you,

another shot please no yes i’ll be sick yes i want to be sick oh i

hope i get sick tonight i hope i finally fucking

choke.

drink ink drink lotion drink shampoo find everything that doesn’t go

down easily and make yourself a cocktail stare at it.

take five advil for no reason because your blood craves something and

you don’t yet know what.

 

skin is rubbersoft hard and it hurts to have hair it hurts to have blood

it hurts to feel like to feel like to feel like to feel.

my tongue fills my whole mouth i was always picking at my lips at my

nose my skin eroding myself gently peeling away until i could be only

the bones like the exhibits in the neverending hallways the ones where

i would stay for hours where i wished i could live where i was nobody but

an observer or an outsider and i never felt like i belonged here now progressing in

a self a form and and and to have a body is to have a stake in the narrative, so i just

wrote

(it)

instead.