Category: citizen trans* {project}
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You call me she They look around confused Looking for her You call me he They look around confused Have they met him before? Will you be mad to know You’ll always assume wrong? Will you feel lied to? Should I be afraid? If masculinity is armor Why do I feel less safe? You wouldn’t…
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Is it so wrong to live as myself? To breathe without regret To love without threat. Why? It is your own shortsightedness that is to blame, That your frame of mind is one of resolve in pursuit of a false righteousness. If empathy is such a stress If it causes you duress, To see a…
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Transition now. Or later. transition while you’re alive and free. thousand born today – cousins: Transition now forever!
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people will always want me dead that’s why I get myself the good coffee dark rich people will always want me dead that’s why I keep my humanity in notebooks my tarot reshuffled telling me where I’m going next (outside to smoke) people will always want me dead that’s why I give myself the good…
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I can’t quit my chained maidenWho pliés around the welkinFrom stone to stone, and craterTo crater, hypergolic. She spinsAnd laughs, I swell with love. I callHer a reminicantagonist, a futurephiliacBut as she always does, she floatsAhead. Skipping, stone to stone,Alpheratz towards Canis and his son.She knows what will come next,She’s lived it before. This is…
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Yesterday I drove my son back homewithout crying, long past tears, knowingsoon I’ll leave, no more weekend sharedcustody, in attempt to flee draconian lawsdevised to erase and replace me with masksI wore but never wanted. He doesn’t knowwhy I jump at every knock shatteringsilence, but my edginess seeps into himand he knows it’s not right.…
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Trans lives matter despite what they say going back into the closet can’t be the only way I loathe darkness now that I know light my friends huddle in fear my family mark their calendars a man anointed to serve my country nazi salutes a want to be dictator a friend said that might end…
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I’ve seen you singing in the floor of the train car. The screeching of the tracks, background singers. Nobody else knows it’s the rest of the sky down there. I try and count the stars but people keep treading over them. A light dusting, it seems to accompany every galaxy. But it wasn’t the dirt…
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And we were popular for a little while. As muses. As specimens. As celluloid and dreams. Maybe Warhola saw a little of himself in us, with his dumb blonde twink toupe and his ancestors from one of the bad parts of Eastern Europe that no one wants to remember. The same forgotten language, по-нашому, in…
