December 20, 2022

ten years ago
i
was bored at my home

ten years ago
i
felt community thirty minutes away
(at a college i never attended)

ten years ago
i
called out to my friends to see
if anyone would be
excited for me
to come hang out that evening

ten years ago
i
happened to [re-]meet the love of my life
and this time we were both ready
available
and actually looking
pondering each other for
conquest
and connection

but

it is not this day that we count
as our official anniversary

ten years ago today
was a preamble
a flirtation
a stuttering step towards
a beginning

tomorrow
will be the actual anniversary:
that post-midnight
that coming together
that “end of the world”
that, even if it did actually end,
and this is all a simulation in someone else’s head,
at least we got a chance to meet and be together
ten years ago
the best thing that ever happened to me
was
you

and for the past ten years
that has continued
to be
true

November 20, 2022

i wrote a snarky poem
for Trans Week of Awareness
telling y’all to be aware of me:
my gender, chaotic
my joy, revolutionary.
and still i talked about our siblings who are silenced
through legislation
through societal constraints
through direct, abhorrent violence–
but for an act so violent
to be what wakes me up
on Trans Day of Remembrance…
it just feels too
too
too too
much

i have no conclusion to this poem

Stop
Killing
Us.

October 24, 2022

i wonder
if my mother
would have been great
at getting my pronouns
right

would she have stood up for me
at family gatherings
corrected people
when i wasn’t near
would she have been
the ally
i needed
to come out
with a bang
instead of this subtle
exhausting
whispered
coming out
over
and over
and over
again
every time
a ‘she’ is uttered
or a ‘ladies’ is announced
or any of those microaggressions
my gender dysphoria
insists
are actual aggression

i don’t know
i wish i knew
but i really don’t

she was an ally of all queer folks she knew
(I know 100% she’d have been to my wedding
would have celebrated like the world was ending
when she knew mine was just beginning
because that’s just the way she was)
but gender is somehow harder
and the in-between confuses even the best
of allies
and i don’t want to put her up on a pedestal
nor do i want to underestimate her devotion
to a me she never got to see

i only knew her for eleven and three quarters years
and i have memories of less
she is both the person i was closest to
and the biggest mystery of my life

and i just wish
i could guess
what it would be like
to have her
stand up
for me

October 19, 2022

had big enough feels
to feel the need
to express it
sans poetry
via prose
and who knows
how that ended up
but i might re-read
and edit
and submit it
at a later date
so folks who might not know
start to understand
how emotional labor
takes its
toll

October 16, 2022

a word
to those
who misgender:

if we stop correcting you
it does not mean
it’s all right

in fact
the opposite
is true;

it hits us
hard
each time
to the point
where
we simply
shut down.

the energy to stand up for oneself
drains more and more
each instance

July 26, 2022

Poetry is not a luxury

i did not know Audre Lorde was the one who said this,
but she did

Poetry is not a luxury

it thought it meant it was not just for the upper crust
but a necessity for those without means
too
to fulfill artistic desires
inherent in human nature
for both survival
and for thriving

Poetry is not a luxury

she meant it as something more
as a necessity for communication
for the entirety of human species
but one that comes from
femininity

ok, she didn’t break it down like i do—
hers was the solid break
from men to women
from thought-based to art-based
from one solid half to another

but i think, had Audre Lorde been aware of
and exposed to
the identities we now know,
i think she would have given to the world
even more nuance—
the mixture of male and female
in all of us
and how two halves
are not half and half
and forever split
down the middle,
but how we can hold
the wholeness
in ourselves
and become a luxury
all on our
own

~~~~~~~~~
note: i am only two essays into to my copy of Sister Outsider–there may be new nuance coming, or thoughts on masculinity/femininity in each of us in poetry of hers, i just haven’t gotten to it in my reading
yet

July 5, 2022

i’ll never think flags
are dumb
again.

while there are flags for every
little
sexuality
gender
identity
feeling
fandom
these days
(even the different states in america have their own flag!
and cities!!
it’s getting ridiculous, guys…)
and the ‘meanings’ behind the colored stripes
i often find
a little forced

but

i know of multiple
*multiple*
people
(some i knew personally,
some i only heard their story from their mouth
over a little known
‘clock app’)
who, being non-binary, never felt ‘trans enough’
‘yes’ they’d think to themselves,
‘trans means someone who does not identify
as the gender they were assigned
at birth,
but i’ve had no transition
social/
hormonal/
surgical/
how does that really imply
*trans*-gender?’
and then they’d learn that the white stripe in the middle
of the trans pride flag
is for non-binary folks specifically.
‘i see myself in the trans flag’ their faces of delighted surprise seemed to say
‘i am trans enough—
i mean, i’m part of the damn flag!’

and i recently learned about the disability pride flag
(it had a re-design so those with sight sensitivities
could scroll and not be assaulted by the
zig-zag making strobe effects on their screens)
and i’ve been trying to do more research into the disability community,
one i admired from afar,
and read about,
and wondered if any of my strange nerve pains are
an invisible illness sneaking up on me,
or if my glasses are enough of a mobility aid to think of them as such,
or, still, if my depression/anxiety interrupt my day-to-day
in this world built for neurotypicals
to even imagine them as disabilities.
but in learning about the disability pride flag
and what those colors mean
and that blue stripe
right there
calls out mental illness—
very
obviously
states
that mental illness
is part
of the disability
community

and i have never breathed such a loaded sigh
of relief
of pride
of protection
of fear
of the weight of what it means
to be disabled in a culture
that would rather pretend a global pandemic
is over
than admit that disabled people
are bearing the brunt
of the deaths and tragedies from it

so
even though
i take on most of my mental illness
in isolation
(except for some poems
here and there
in this here daily poetry blog)
i’m starting to think of myself
as one who has community
rather than one
without

June 23, 2022

my gender is gentle
a little bit fragile:
i’m Stede Bonnet as a child
in fancy, frilly shirts
continuing to pick flowers
and love the earth
as the world shows me
people are cruel
but by myself i may be safe

my gender is compassionate
a little bit foolish:
like a teen girl in love with
her first asshole boyfriend
telling her friends
‘i can fix him’
except for me, the him is humanity
it’s the entire world falling apart
it’s the earth i love that as a species
we’ve
set fire fire to
and destroyed

my gender is a plaything
i’ve pulled apart and fit back together again,
but i was never good at those projects in gifted class–
they’d bring in a rotary phone
and those who wanted could dis-
and re-
assemble as they wanted
but i never did it;
i said i was content memorizing lines for my latest production
or watching silly films about muffins made as a senior thesis
by a person i’d never met
online
(B.T. Before the youTubes),
but really i was terrified–
what if i took an object apart,
destroyed it,
essentially,
and couldn’t ever get it
back to working order,
so i never, ever, ever practiced…

maybe that’s why my gender doesn’t fit back
the way it used to
before i haphazardly took it apart–

but in a way,
though it doesn’t fit the way it did,
(and it sure doesn’t look
like
the box it came in),
it somehow suits me
better.

June 18, 2022

contemplating
calling out
misgendering

of myself
of my fellow enbies

it can be easier
to correct
an obvious gendered flub–
a she for a he
and a he for a she–
the identity and clues and presentation
are often there;
it should be
obvious.

but with those of us
in-between/
outside-of/
on a whole other
gender-level

clothing/
body hair/
size/
shape/
color/
means little to nothing:
we are sans gender
(or all genders together)
and all we are asking
is that you see us as a person
first
before gender.

and it doesn’t matter how
queer-friendly
or queer
a person is…

i’ve seen binary trans folks
throw ‘she’s around
in place of ‘they’s
‘he’s
for ‘xe’s
and it hurts
like a knife
to the soul

and i know social conditioning
is a struggle to escape,
and i know language barriers
can make it impossibly hard,
but if, in a queer space,
as you set yourself up
as a queer teacher
and imply the safety
for all
but still buy into a binary
[even if it’s solely through language]
you are proving
yourself
wrong.

***the emotion of this poem
is over a year old,
the initial person who prompted
this poem
has done a great job
of reeling in their language
and looking at the person
first.
but i wanted to write
and re-write
for catharsis purposes,
and i wanted to post
not only for a call-in/call-out,
in case you are a person
who sees gender
first,
but also to say
that everyone makes mistakes
even queer folks in queer spaces
and it can always be forgiven,
but know that we always notice
even if we say nothing
we always
always
notice***