I cannot wait to die

CW: little bit suicidal

I cannot wait to die,

to be so insubstantial as to have never existed.

I would never be fat again, hated for my body,

I would be so thin you'd never see me.

I would never be transgender again,

an inconvenient patch of grass,

that you can pave over with whatever story you like.

You can call me 'he' and 'him' till the cows come home,

and I will not be there to take it anymore.

To be the skinny man I never was in your imagination.

To be the stranger I never was living in your disappointment.

I cannot wait to die,

so everyone else could experience that absence of being,

as I lived a ghost in my own life,

as if I had this invisible twin brother everyone spoke to,

instead of me.

Maybe when I die I'll meet him, finally, and kill him too.

-o0o-

Offering

To be transgender means,

to have your genitalia become dinner table conversation.

Something people would never do with cis people.

But suddenly my cock and cunt is carved up,

to be consumed by polite cutlery.

To be transgender means,

to have your life sidelined by an imaginary person,

that people speak to and wonder why you don't answer.

My pronouns are they/them. My pronouns are they/them.

It is not that hard.

To be transgender means,

that every statement about you by cis people,

is university incorrect. Always.

And don't dream to correct them, 

because you will drown in wrath and tears.

To be transgender means,

there is no being. You don't get to just be.

Oh you get to identify as, but never just be.

You either disappear completely,

or you identify as.

To merely be, is not an option.

To be transgender means,

everyone gets to have an 'opinion',

over whether you get to live or die.

Existance isn't guaranteed, it's reduced to schoolyard 'debate',

and whether you can muster the wherefores and whytos,

to legitimise your claim on a heartbeat.

To be transgender means,

being constantly surprised that you're surprised.

Being constantly disappointed that you're disappointed.

Having dreamed to think things might be better this time around.

To be transgender means,

that when I was hurt, it wasn't really hurt,

I must have asked for it, or else I must have deserved it.

Besides, TERFs are just stochastic terrorists, 

they're not responsible for male violence,

except when it wasn't a man who threw the punch,

pushed the hatred, told another lie.

To be transgender means,

being tired, all the time.

Because no amount of sleep cures this.

No amount of rest brings your head above water.

To be transgender means,

you are constantly drowning.

To be transgender means,

I am not doing okay.

And it's not getting better.

And I don't see a tomorrow where this gets better.

And I don't think I'm going to make it.

-o0o-

Holy Ground

CW: anti-gay slur

"Faggot!"

You yell.

Okay?

Although to be clear:

I am a goddess.

I am queer herald,

and fag chic with buttermilk nailpolish.

I am my mother's pride,

and my father's punching bag.

Who are you to demand an audience?

You are wearing shoes,

standing on holy ground.

You are a child,

who just learned a naughty word;

expecting,

to be treated as more than just that.

-o0o-

Table

[For all the trans friends I'm surrounded by.]

Build longer,

build stronger,

my table grows.

Pass the salt, pass the bread,

scooch up.

Leave a spot for the dead,

spill a drop for the missing,

save a dish for the late,

on a welcoming plate.

My family grows.

A forest of hands,

to warm, to feed,

to heal, to comfort,

to meet the need.

How many of you there are,

that my table stretches so far.

-o0o-

The Queer

We are the strange,
the beautiful,
the queer, twisted like hempen rope.
Having seen the end of every hope,
and yet still here.
Still here through everything,
we beautiful few,
carrying our dead friends in our hearts,
carrying our duty on our backs,
and the sins of abusive fathers on our skin.
Condemned for our queer,
and yet saved by it.
Salve Regina to our queer.
Long may it live.
Long may we live,
The Beautiful.

-o0o-

Womxnhood

my womxnhood sits in the bowl of a vast ocean

swirling about my teeth as I drink

sliding down my neck, my chest, my arms, my legs,

drinking it down, even the dregs

my womxnhood flows like a tide

to and fro, up and down

first to bathe, then to drown

passionate then fleeting.

my womxnhood is hard to grasp

I run through your fingers when you grab at me

receding into the deep

just to condense on your skin while you sleep

my womxnhood is strong and bold

and infinitely difficult for you to hold

or dismiss with some casual flick of the wrist

like a dog on a leash you can twist

my womxnhood is not chained by your binary

your biology, your flesh, your genes

I would no sooner fall to patriarchy

than trans exclusionary bigotry

my womxnhood is angry and hurt

by the words you so casually throw about

and when I scream at the flesh cut out

you tell me I'm divisive?

my womxnhood is vast and deep

dark at the bottom and frothing at the surface

infinite to all who accept it

cruel to those who reject it

while the salt of transphobia's blight

would kill everything in sight

my womxnhood is free

every tree grows from me

-o0o-

The March of the Nots

Woman

historically

have always been defined 

by what she is not.

a woman is *not* a man

but she is a wo-man

a woman is *not* a black person

but she "may" be black woman

a woman is *not* a jewish person

but she "may" be a jewish woman

a woman is *not* lesbian person

but she "may" be a lesbian woman

a woman is *not* transgender

but she "may" be a transgender woman

a woman is *not* asexual

but she "may" be an asexual woman

a woman is *not* nonbinary

but she "may" be a nonbinary woman

add womxn to the mix

experiencing multiple intersections

of identity and marginalizations

and alt-right man-children's brains break.

womanhood is always

filled to the brim with obstacles

the attainment of womanhood

has never been automatic

unless you're profoundly

white

cisgender

heterosexual

rich

healthy

able-bodied

and neurotypical

if a womxn tells you who she is

and the world rushes in

to tell her what she's not

she's probably exactly

who she says she is.

the second she claims

her femininity as empowering

her identity as explicit

her marginalisation as history

the world rushes in 

to tell her to stop being divisive.

the second she speaks

of the way she's been marginalised

the world rushes in

to tell her that "We don't need labels!"

the second she speaks

the world is back

telling her what she's not.

-o0o-

Three Conversations

2010.

I met him for the first time at dinner,

with our regular group of sinners.

He was the partner of a friend's brother.

I knew this when we were introduced,

so I'm not sure what got me all seduced,

...but I was hungry and,

he was beautiful.

So beautiful in-fact,

that, 

in front of everyone,

I asked, "Are you single?"

I never quite felt so alone:

he smiled at me,

with that put-upon face that could peel bone.

2015.

I met him for the first time at a funeral.

His partner died of hiv.

Three sinners alone in a church, we,

one dead, two alive,

surrounded by a hateful hive.

We spoke to each other,

so that he didn't have to deal with the family.

When the time came,

the father ashamed,

stood up in front of the church,

and blamed us for the deceased’s death.

I smiled at the man digging into my arm,
with his fingernails.

and asked, "Are you single?"
You could hear hearts fail.

We left the service early,

and got McDonalds.

2016.

I met him for the first time at a party,

he was getting divorced.

His partner, he said, had lied to him,

pretending to be a man or a woman,

or something like that:

he spat out a transphobic slur,

with my vision beginning to blur:

"That's terrible..." I gasped,

"Is she single?"
That riled up the little shit,

his punch caught me in the forehead.
Utterly worth it.

-o0o-

Lift

she's here in a flash

with her hand strong

crashing through

the broken glass

to hold me up

to hold me when I cry

to hold me safe

in troubled times

and she smiles

faintly

from the other side of the mirror

-o0o-

Abyss

I wrote a thousand names on your skin
each a praise worthy of gods
I crowned you lord and saviour
with words older than either of us
but you didn't understand
so the words faded on your skin
like scars
and my words were a forgotten breath
and I was forgotten
an old relic in the mouth of the abyss

-o0o-

Body Politic

body politic in a nation of one

a play in three acts

act one

where a child wakes up into life

with their lands invaded

by entitled abusive hands that

to this day

are entitled to my sovereignty

with words like

"honour your father"

act two

in which I am a resistant force

in my own body

punished for being self

where the uniform of conscription is male

and the invading empire prevails

with slogans like

"under this roof"

act three

in which independence is tenuous

but the emperor is gone

and the propaganda remains

bruises and scars

alongside

insults and abuse

with my borders

still rebuilding after a long war

epilogue

my cities are shining a bit more now

my streets are femme

and the houses purple

there is scaffolding everywhere

but rebuilding is slow

and sometimes painful

-o0o-

Apologia from a Bigot

"I'm sorry 'sir'...

I know you'd prefer,

some pronoun other than him or her."

"But I self-appoint,

my self annoint,

myself judge and barrister."

"Convenient, yes?

Comfort to my laziness,

to strip you of name and dress."

"In the end, you see,

it's all about me,

I don't say these things to oppress."

-o0o-

Floodwater

Queer is the dam that powers their homes.

Queer is their denial with mortar and stones.

Queer is the crack at the base of the wall wall.

Queer is the flood that came down on them all.

Queer is the river that cuts through their street.

Queer is the water that dams at their feet.

Queer are their children who learned how to swim.

Queer are the songs that they sing like a hymn.

Queer are their houses being worn away.

Queer are the trees under which the dogs play.

Queer are the fields renewed by the flood.

Queer is the water paid for with blood.

Queer is the rust and the broken glass.

Queer are the weeds that grow in the grass.

Queer is the valley where houses once stood.

Queer is the river, queer is the wood.

-o0o-

I restored this poem. No word back from whether it would be published or not.

Cochineal

we've tried 

for so long

to scrub the queer from us

like trying to scrub dye from a cloth

only to rub it in 

deeper

so much 

that our hands bleed

that our nails are impregnated

dye seeping into our cuticles

running into the creases of our knuckles

and the folds of our hands

so much 

that even the fake fortune teller

can see that queer runs deep 

into our future

through our veins

so whether we paint it on

or wash it off

we are queer

no cure to absolve us

no gods to forgive us

no laws to ban us

we've run into the veins of society

reminding it

that we are like Cochineal

crush us

and we'll just make more colour

we're a part of the cloth now

we are the clothes you wear

the curtains you drape

the bed sheets you fuck on

the upholstery of your car

we're not adjacent

we're intrinsic

and no bigot can undo that

spill our blood

and you will only be reminded of your own

-o0o-

Purple Pt 2

...also it's my birthday :)

-o0o-

Purple

-o0o-

and the text:

I grew up pretending to be blue.

Pretending to be Apollo with his sky’s hue.

Daddy’s favourite. Because maybe...

...maybe if I stole a leaf from a man’s book,

I could become the things I took.

Not queer as one as they 'mistook'?

But I’m not him and that’s not me,

so I threw myself at red.

Queer as blood. Dense as lead.

Unmoving anger that flung me there,

burning passion inside my head,

that ate me up and left me dead,

a shell used up, naked and bare,

and I twisted,

queered,

unbecame the expectation,

and embraced the fault,

became the in/between,

unman,

unwoman,

thing,

I named myself whole.

With incantations that roll,

off my tongue with spit,

off my pen with inks,

and became the hex, the jinx.

And as for what Apollo stole,

who cares what that fucker thinks.

-o0o-

Falling in Love

people write songs about love

happy love, sweet love, warm love

distilled love, kosher love, two percent with added calcium love

dove love, above love, I can't believe this isn't butter love

love that comes from Hallmark cards

and saccharine aphorisms of affection

that often miss the point entirely

sweethearts wreathed with roses

holding hands on a bench

where holding hands is just that

a mutual gesture in sticky solemnity

that risks nothing but intimacy

but I've never experienced love like that

my love was harsh and loud, bold and proud

eager to hide, eager to show

here and there, ebb and flow

entirely too quick and entirely too slow

far more stark than the Valentine's pink glow

passionate and deep, creeping at times

and at times vaulting at you head on

to find body and soul bruised and sated

to find yourself beached like a whale

on the shores of your desires

entirely fed, entirely stranded

and still

even years later

wondering

what the fuck happened?

-o0o-

Me and Your Me

I struggle to split
the convenient me for your easy consumption
from the genuine hard pip
I struggle to divide
find the cruel line that sets me aside
myself as opposed to the me that is yours
we cruel carnivores
that eat at the buffet of souls
that taste of our friends
not they who they are
but they who we'd like them to be
pick and choose
but it's different for me
when all I do is lose
when I'm all stone in the centre
unfit for popular consumption
because I'm not prescribed assumption
coded as affectation and presumption
I became wholly spat out
because I'm not that or this
neither bite nor kiss
blue or pink
swim or sink
pot or pan
wo or man
I guess we all need our provinces
but I don't export from there
I'm not apple or pear
I'm oranges ripe and acidic
pick me up where I lie
burning the little cuts on your lips
difficult to peel for eager finger tips
treat me wrong and I'll spit in your eye

-o0o-

Sculpt

you, stranger, so keen

to get at my clay

with your little pallet knife

to scrape error away

as if my life exists

as object of your play

for malignant hands

to do as they may

getting rid of my queerness

and how you pray

as if pottery can be undone

by wishful bray

so smash and sweep

my bits away

or else I'm here

and here to stay

-o0o-

Silvertoothed

today I am beautiful

ever shining

despite the hate in this world

with arseholes opining

I sparkle against them

a protest uphill

and still, and still, and still

through sheer will

I am

always glorious

defiant bastard

newly victorious

I exist to spite

spit in the face of ignorance and hate

and burn bright

I am deified in this

atheist and god

in one place

to fly in the face

of the powers that keep me down

I am the smile

to spite that frown

oppress me? I'll beat you

hate me? I'll eat you

compete me? I'll feat you

because today I am beautiful

shining and splendid

animal and human

broken and blended

I'm the always irreverent dream

the unexpected blasphemous scream

the madgod rising unforseen

the silvertoothed heathen feminist queen

-o0o-