gender dysphoria

death of the author

every time i try to write poetry, it sounds the same. 

 

procrastinating) fucking with my fingernails and that’s rust not dirt that’s 

from last night, i never minded needles but sometimes i 

still have to get drunk to make myself do the shot and then it 

bleeds bleeds bleeds 

like (not enough of) an exchange 

 

in every mousehole/trashcan/outhouse/pillbottle where i almost glimpse profundity it 

turns out to be another hidden mirror and jesus christ, 

i’ve seen enough of “my” own face i’ve seen 

enough 

already 

 

my favorite scenes to write (genre:fantasy) were ones with daggers (“darksilver”) 

and jewels and mead and gossamer and sacrificial lambs and 

“holy” water and “green” moss and 

CISGENDER men and CISGENDER women i was always 

enchanted by the idea of eating one’s fill. 

 

all art is quite useless but it is so exhausting to think that 

the artist is as well.

A Love Letter To My HRT

It’s been six months since the last time I had access to my hormone replacement therapy. Though I was already prescribed and had been on testosterone since 2016, when I moved to a new state no doctor would continue my prescription. Until now…

To my HRT,

Hi.

It’s been awhile.

I’m sorry we haven’t seen each other since October of 2018.  I know you’ve been waiting for me and I didn’t mean to keep you in suspense for so long.

I feel like I owe you an explanation.

Long story short – I moved. Long story long – I moved to a place where the reception was really bad. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to see you – it’s just that any channel I tried to reach you through was static. I don’t know what you did to piss off a whole bunch of old red state doctors, therapists, nurse practitioners, and endocrinologists, but they really, reallydon’t know what to do when I bring up your name. Every day they cut another line and the frequency got a little fuzzier between you and I until finally there was just silence.

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.

Little Gay Comix: #3 – Reminder

Take care of yourselves, friends!

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.

 

BMO from Adventure Time Teaches Kids It’s Okay to Explore Gender Identity

Children’s media has been slowly making the shift from recognizing external problems to identifying more personal problems.  A program growing up with that was very good about this was Mister Rogers Neighborhood.  Letting viewers know that it’s okay to be sad or mad or scared, just reminding them that there’ll be happy feelings too.  Mattel, with its Barbie line of products, has recently been releasing personal vlogs from Barbie, talking openly about negative feelings and letting kids know it’s okay to reach out. …