LGBTQIA

Translucence

murky storm clouds

 drifting over a pride parade

 

muted conversations

 beneath a firework display

 

flirty interactions

 on tentative replay

 

a kiss on the cheek

 instead of being brave

 

blush strokes upon skin

 before truth fades away

 

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.

A Hometown Never Stops Being Home: Growing Up Trans In A Rural Area

I thought my hometown would have my back when I came out as trans…but when you offer up your own truth, you are often met with the harsh truths of the world around you.

Trigger warning: brief mentions of sexual assault, anti-trans violence, LGBTQ hate speech

I grew up in a myriad of little towns scattered across the Hudson Valley. I was 40 minutes from the infamous Woodstock, about two hours from New York City, and surrounded by the exact type of people you’d suspect would exist between those two extremes. It was a liberal area, even if it felt like I was constantly boxed in by the Catskills that raised high above me always, on all sides. Every town I moved to – and I moved a lot – had a different flavor of rebellion and grunge.  In upstate New York, I grew up thinking I could be anybody. 

I knew the Hudson Valley like the back of my hand. I knew what towns I could leave my car doors unlocked in. I knew where all the swimming holes were. I knew what Kingston, my hometown, looked like before gentrification started to plant its roots in the historic streets, sprouting new bars and antique shops and putting up fences so the weeds of the displaced, impoverished many wouldn’t taint the fertile soil. I knew the safest streets to walk on at two AM. My hometown was full of friends and enemies and my past and future and I could read it like you could read the oldest, most worn book on your shelf. 

I felt safe. 

for you.

I thought I had known him through you.
In your selfish, selfless forgiveness.
In your dirty hands, diligent,
digging a hole in the cool shade of your cruel world
to bury me in.
In the mystery I thought I was unfolding.
In your anger.
Your eyes, the freckled floodgates-
How they could never open, never let go of the pressure.
Like you might deflate and fly and fall without it.
But there was grace, and hope too.
The softest timbre of your voice, saved just for me.
When you spoke the words sounded like verse:
patient, honest, clever. I thought I heard him there, in our plans.
You did too.
Your guilt burned its way through every kiss.  
Our spit, a cocktail of resentment; I still taste it.
But.
We were love as we knew it. We were the best
we could do.  
It was unfair, but we did it. And I’d still do it,
for you.

But
I was wrong.
Christmas Eve. Our first goodbye.
I knew him then- only then. For the first time.
In the pain of a divine, self inflicted punishment,
I felt him. his little finger reaching down
to rest on my chest, listening to the catch of my breath,
while the pressure wavers,
as if even he is unsure, like me, if I deserve it-
but still pressing, nonetheless.

another neo-sapphic love poem

Image result for pomegranate

pomegranates they all write about

pomegranates and i think it’s fucking stupid i think they yearn for

that clean contrast,

fruit on marble like

blood on grass,

like skin in sea,

the oxymoron in

“angel of death” but

we are all in opposition already,

mythology is redundant,

binarism is flat beside triangulation and

after all, our grandmothers found their way

not by following the sunset

but by tracing the stars.

Pansexuality in Schitt’s Creek: A Win for Represenation

How is everyone’s beautiful day/night/evening/morning/afternoon/twilight going? Wonderful! Well, mine is just fantastic, thank you for asking. Why is it so fantastic you may ask? Oh haha ta hee ha. Let me tell you. Because of a very special TV show called “Schitt’s Creek.”

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.

Cloudy Today: A Vignette

October 1987

I wake up to a loud, panicked knock on my door. I quickly pull on a pair of sweatpants, and opened the door. There is Maggie, tearing up.

“Anna, you’re the only person… I don’t know what to do… Fuck, Anna, I need to talk to someone or I might do something I regret.”

“It’s 2 in the morning.”

Maggie ignores this. “Let’s go somewhere private. The bathroom. C’mon.” She tugs on my arm, and I acquiesce, following her down the dimly lit dormitory corridor.

We sit facing each other in the showers. Her face is red, eyes stained with tears, mascara running. She still looks perfect, and I lean forward, ready with a tissue, and dab at her eyes.

“It’s okay. Tell me what happened.”

Maggie looks up at me with her giant hazel eyes, and a shudder runs down my spine. She gulps.

“I loved that asshole. I fucking loved him. Fuck, I thought I did. Why the fuck do I let people love me?” The tears start again in earnest, and she buries her head in her hands, her whole body racked with sobs.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Fucking guess, Anna,” she snaps. “He goes off for a semester abroad, and insists we can make it work, that long distance isn’t the end, and then I have to hear from his brother that he’s screwing some tramp, some Eastern European slut who can probably bend her legs backwards over her head, and I’m here twiddling my goddamned thumbs, waiting like some pathetic little housewife for him to come back…” she trails off, then looks down guiltily at the floor. Her head turns back up to me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to explode like that. I found out, like, an hour ago and you were the only person I thought of to tell. Fuck, I know it’s early, I must have paced outside your door for like, twenty minutes, Anna, I did, but I needed to see you, I needed to get this shit out of me, I would have fucking exploded.”

After a few minutes, she pulls away, rooting around in her bag. She removes a cigarette, lights it, closes her eyes, and the smoke curls out of her nostrils. She does everything with such grace even when she’s falling apart. I fall out of my hypnosis and grab the cig from her, stubbing it out on the damp ground.

“What the fuck you do that for?”

“God damn it, you fucking idiot, you can’t smoke in here. You’ll set the alarms off, wake up the whole damn building.”

“Pfft. Like that fucking matters. Like anything fucking matters.”

“Christ, you dummy, yeah, shit matters! I matter! You matter!”

“Fuck it, Anna, of course you matter. I just need a damn cigarette.”

I try to change the subject before she gets herself expelled. “You’ll find someone who deserves you. I told you from the beginning that he didn’t.”

“So what? It’s my fault?”

“Shut up. You know exactly what I’m saying. He was wrong, but he’s not the only one out there.”

“Ehh… I know, but, Anna, I can’t just wait for the right person. What’s the point of a bright future if today is so fucking cloudy?”

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. I want to dry her tears. I want to put her soft lips against mine. I want to hold her tight and never let her go. A selfish thought crosses my mind: I want her to love me. I want her to know that I am that person, the one who could be right for her, to make her happy, to love her unconditionally.

It’s fucking pathetic. I always said I wouldn’t be the one lusting after the straight girls. And here I am, taking a moment that’s about Maggie, and making it about me.

This is when Maggie leans in and presses her lips against mine. They’re rougher than I imagined them to be. I can’t kiss her back, because before I can even think she’s pulled away again, her expression quickly contorting into a frown.

“What the fuck was that, Anna? I thought we were friends!”

“Mag, you kissed me-”

“Shut up, you dyke! Get away from me!”

She gets up and walks away and it’s like I’ve been punched in the throat because each breath is jagged and I can’t say a single fucking word or do anything useful but smell her lingering scent and hear that heavy bathroom door slam.

Gay Dating in a Straight World: John Boughton’s Guide to The Gay Dating Game

Let me introduce to you, the safest & best dating app there is for men in the LGBTQIA+ community.

Welcome back ya cuties! Today on Gay Dating in a Straight World (GDSW), we’re going to stick with the theme of dating apps and talk about a very special one. It’s exclusively for gay, queer, bisexual, pansexual, asexual & trans men. It’s name? Chappy.