all of my problems
would be solved
were illness ever so apparenti cut the
of a wolf below my breast,
i call him sweet
and tearing lover
that cut me in two
a blade of
sitting distinctly within my chest:
it is to say
that i am not
comforts to killthe happiness that follows your voice from silence.
you are not god, i am not the mount
and i will not kneel
to hold you
when you are ready
her he loves
him he loves
there is a dawn
pulling, a sunset
liei am calm i
am as calm
as the hills
in a winter
you will find me afterwards
glistening and still.
i hate thinking of your loversi like to pick them, he tells me.
he tells her, and she blushes
and he traces her legs with his
hands. she is a beach doll,
a lay of sand against the shadow of
her head, lips fertile
with the crescent.
thick and forward, he tells her
he can make her shiver; i've got
hands like gods, i've been told.
she puts them in her mouths and
think, spanish inquisition.
she is thirsty for discovery.
he feels her,
he fucks her,
and like a tease
to find her.
untitledWHAT WERE YOU THINKING PRYING
HER MOUTH TO FIT YOU, DID YOU
EXPECT HER CRY, WAS IT LEFT
OPEN AND UNFORGIVEN BECAUSE
YOU ARE A BASTARD WHO FISHES
FOR LOVE IN THE PIT OF OLD
what do gods see in the dark?hello friend i've not yet had the pleasure to meet
your deceased, do they tally the reasons for
you why life is better belly up in a grave,
your daddy was an arsonist
carried guns and drew them
to your temple and would
ask you about gods,
do you know gods don't exist
little phillip, only darkness and
the absence of darkness which
if we were to look correctly at
ourselves are endless contortions
of light, endless, endless, ever
forming and reforming and
attempting to deform,
and you were never good at not
frightening yourself to tears, so
you did just that, and your daddy
laughed and said not to take things
before he put the gun to his chin
and killed himself.
the thing is,
you were not supposed to see
and you did, you curious little
thing, always asking questions
and always looking through
drawers and peeking through
cracks, don't you know curiosity
is cunning and will crack
you like a whip,
against the door frame you held
idkwho you are,
but this tepid
destruction of trust
that tumults in waves
against my hands outlaid
said to put myself
at the foot of your bed
and i would not be forgotten.
have stayed, despite
the discourse of sister
whores lining the frame, your
offshore maelstrom of urges
that howl through the inland
where i stay
i watch shores desecrate
with you leading massacar, a hand
drawn and a victim laid straight
that drench the banks,
sink your feet into me
stay until the soil dries;
i leave you
read this when you're so angry you shakelittle drops of oil make rainbows on wet concrete
and i don’t know how beautiful you find that,
but sometimes you gotta learn that
the littlest things are the prettiest,
like the shape of your fingernails and the crinkles
you get at the corner of your eyes when you laugh and
when you grow old and i know i said “grow old”
like it’s a temporary thing, but that’s because it is.
you can think it’s forever but it’s really
a split second because you don’t matter, not when
the universe is still growing and speeding through a nothingness
we can’t even fathom, not when color doesn’t exist in space
but nebulas still explode in shades of gold and green,
not when there are stars who die
before their light ever touches our faces. you don’t matter,
not to anyone but the people who have fallen in love
with the way you walk and the way you breathe
and the way you keep doing both.
i don’t care that the universe is spinning and grow
He was not born a girl. (story of a trans boy)(He was not born to be a girl,
He was born to be himself)
And when he was five he
was forced into dresses,
not understanding why
he couldn't wear the
trousers to school and
not the skirt,
he learned that clothes
and toys had one gender only
and so did he.
And when he was seven he
told his Mother he was a
boy and didn't understand
her insistence that he was
a she and that he was a Prince,
not a Princess.
And when he was eleven he
wore a tie to high school instead
of the skirt and he learned
that no matter what the experts
say, children can still be cruel.
(but guess what, he still wore it
day after day 'cause he wanted to
and it was all him)
And when he was 12 his body betrayed
him and he looked in the mirror and
hated who he saw so he hid the dresses
when his Mother was out and learned
that gender is in your head and not
between your legs and that gave him
And when he was 14, he told them
his real name,
but even though they said they'd
an open letter to my twelve year old selfone day you will cut all your hair off,
and hang up a map of the world in your
room and you will look at it on days
you think your life is going nowhere.
i hate to tell you this, but this isn’t
your worst year. it also isn’t your
one day you will cut all your hair off
and realize that some poems need to be read
out loud, to an audience, so you’ll take a hammer
and some nails and build yourself one
out of a girl whose veins look fragile but
whose bones are strong, a boy who isn’t as tall as
he thinks he is, but whose lifelines are the deepest
you’ve ever seen, and a girl whose eyes remind you of the
east coast shore.
one day you will cut all your hair off,
and learn that you can like pink
just as much as you like blue
and the world will not fall apart
along its fault lines. there are other flags
you can wave with pride that
one day you will cut all your hair off
and figure out how to forgive yourself,
figure out how to sta
a list of things colleges don't want to know1. i have a cactus named atticus that i bought
on the day i thought i was going to die,
and i never forget to water it, not
even when i forget how it feels
to breathe without my lungs rebelling
against my brain.
2. sometimes talking feels like walking on gravel
in a Georgian summer heat.
i try to keep talking anyway,
and hope that eventually
my voice will lose its softness and grow calluses.
3. once, a man whistled at me
outside of a grocery store from
the safety of his car.
four years later, i still haven’t stopped looking
over my shoulder.
4. i drive too fast and i take turns too sharply
and i never put enough sugar
in my tea and i could probably survive
on watermelon alone. i’m left handed
and once taught myself to write only in capital
letters to piss off my seventh grade english teacher.
5. i have never felt closer to my father
than when we stayed
outside till two a.m. in november and watched
a meteor shower.
6. there are some things
i don’t think i’ll ever
peccavii think you are lovely.
but i am not in love with you,
and by the fifth time you catch my eye and look
away just as quickly, i realize
that i cannot will myself into being so.
if love were as simple as a field of flowers,
i swear i would pick you a bouquet
of daises, and make sure that every petal you
picked off ended with ‘she loves me’.
if love were as reliable as the sun,
i would never stand so far away from you that our
shadows did not touch.
if love were as predictable as the weather,
i swear i would spend every storm
kissing you in the rain.
if love were as fair as Lady Justice
i would tie a scarf around my eyes
and spend the rest of my life blind
just to be able to feel the way our fingerprints
line up together.
if love were—
but it’s not, and i’m not—
in love with you, that is, and
you deserve a girl whose heartbeat plays
the Hawaii 5-0 theme song whenever
you walk into the room.
i know that isn’t me.
and i don’t know how we can r
Thoughts on Growing UpThoughts on Growing Up
I exist more inside of my mind
Than in reality.
I am not sure what I am trying to find.
I think I am trying to lose
I liked the sing song of nursery rhymes
Before I knew the story behind them.
I liked the way the world looked
Before I could read between its lines.
They sound nothing like my little kid lullabies.
Everything seems to remind me
Of how it will never be
What I wished it was.
I thought growing up was supposed to make me stand tall.
My veins are roots
Digging themselves into the ground.
But nobody ever warned me
Of the tree snapping
And I feel like a little kid,
I’ve got bright eyes and scraped up knees.
The scratches so alive and raw.
You use grown up band aids
To cover up your wide eyed dreams.
But I was never one for reality.
Keep your band aids.
I’ll make my own way to the Neverland
That I dreamed of.
I’ll make my own lullaby.
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub.i.
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub:
in the magazine I own that published your story,
they blurred out the crime scene photographs,
erasing your face and
the full curves of your breasts.
some part of me wonders
if you would have wanted this,
or if you would have liked for
the public to see you in your final moments,
half-soaked in grey-looking water,
your hair in strings, glued to the porcelain,
eyes closed and mouth gaping,
no breath stirring, no bubbles rising.
sometimes when I look
into the depths of my bathroom sink,
I hear your voice
(or what I imagine it to be--
after all, we never met).
you sit on the edge of the toilet seat,
and chat to me about the weather.
I would give anything to hear your real, living voice,
to ask you what you were thinking
as you lowered yourself
into the tub, queen of the tendrils of steam,
and let your lungs deflate like old birthday balloons.
on the news they say that your autopsy
revealed three quarters
of a bottle o
Depression is an OptionDepression is a choice, my dear,
And happiness the same
You choose this illness, don’t you?
What a tragic little game.
Depression is an option, love
Just get up out of bed
Take your tears and worries
And just smile now instead.
Depression is a choice, you see,
And so is suicide.
Just sit back, kick your feet up, dear
Enjoy this perfect ride.
Get over your own standards
Of what everyone should be.
Just smile for once, and maybe
You’ll be living perfectly.
Depression is an illness
That we feel so deep within.
Why would anybody choose
To write poetry on their skin?
Unless there lies a reason, dear,
I would not choose to die.
If depression was an option...
I’d choose to say goodbye.
what willy loman saidi keep trying to tell you that
the woods are burning, the ocean is flooding,
but you think it’s the summer heat
and the summer rain and you think
this is how it has to be
but it doesn’t it doesn’t
and you don’t leave
because you think we have time, but the smoke
is a noose i could hang myself with and
we got jewels and riches and coins but
we don’t got a damn second.