trans poetry

retrace: a poem in 5 parts



last night, in 2012, it was raining and you were outside, 

this morning, 11am 12pm 1pm morning, you sit at the window eyes diverted and try to remember 

when the weather would weather your skin and pierce to whatever 

sits beneath, when the rain would hit the muscle only anymore reachable 

by your testosterone needles, every friday, today friday, yesterday morning friday but 

last night always something else. 

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 




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.


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.



for the last time

she will make her bed in defeat



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.


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.

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


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