Apr 04

Testosterone

Tuesday is my T day.
The first month, I was excited for Tuesday to come,
waking up early just to be sure my injections were timed;

wake up
eat
wash hands
sterilize leg
fill syringe
.25
swap needle
push out air
grab leg
hover needle over leg until confident enough to insert (approximately seven minutes)
pull back; check for blood
inject
remove needle
place in sharps container
scramble for bandaid if needed.

I have begun my fourth month of carefully choreographed Tuesday mornings.
Today’s Tuesday was a bleeder: I think I nicked a vein when removing.
In month two, I forgot to eat beforehand and almost passed out.
I remembered to put on shoes before I laid down on the floor.

In month three I bought a razor.
I don’t shave often, but my chin hairs protrude enough
that they must be chopped down regularly.
Sep 16

In a world where nothing really matters anyway

When I was in middle school, I did not understand why girls were so incredibly beautiful. I found it confusing, upsetting, and so I pushed it out of my mind. Now, my girlfriend and I laugh at our misfortunes of being young and afraid. I’ve been with her for over two years. I cannot honestly say that I’m happy, but she makes me feel safe and secure and loved. It’s not her fault my mental illness makes it difficult for me to enjoy life. She understands that, and I understand her, and that is why we work.

She supported me when I began coming out. I’m not referring to my first or even second coming out, I mean my third. The one where I needed others to participate in my identity in order to feel like myself. People were slow to pick up my pronouns, and some still don’t use them, but I try not to let it bother me too much. It does, but I work through it.
Sep 01

Hello, it's been a while

Hello there, YWP. It's been a while. Several months, at the absolute least. I've been focused on getting set up and settled in to college. It's a wild ride, that's for sure.
I am making a post because I promised that I would. Sorry, Susan, that it's taken me so long. I promise that when I have more than just five minutes, I'll dig around and pull up some more of my recent art to post. This is just what I could find offhand. Two of these, the bird lady and the cats, and at least a year or two old now, but I can't remember if I ever posted them and I thought they'd be right at home here.

I'm thinking that I may to try to get active in YWP again as a mentor, just sort of floating around and commenting on people's work. We'll see though- classwork does seem like it's going to be crazy.
Apr 02

A week-old dream, lodged in the part of my brain I like the least

I watched from outside myself
perhaps in the mirror,
perhaps I was the mirror,
sitting formless as my body
wearing jeans and staring
at my stomach from the side,
searching out imperfections and wondering
if it really is small enough or
if I really was so wrong to continue skipping lunch or
if I was actually putting on weight,
if all the stress from school and the
donuts sometimes and the
bagels for breakfast and the
ice cream for desert sometimes and the
stress from wondering and the
stress from watching and the
stress from being stressed and the
and the and the
and the.
Feb 07

An Untitled Rant


I reread the emails two nights ago. I was shaking by the end.
I was angry.
At you, at me, at the past, at the present.
I was angry because you have a boyfriend who deserves far better.
I was angry because I constantly lied and let you walk further into my brain.
I was angry because no matter how many times I have called the exterminator,
you're still lodged somewhere in the back of eyes. 
I was angry and I am angry and I don't know if I ever will stop being
angry. 

You made me so goddamn sad. 
You knew exactly what you were doing and I 
knew that you were only hurting me and still
I pulled you closer and said 
"I still want to be friends" and
"I care about you" and
"You matter, you have worth, you are loved."

There are at least 200 emails where you say
we need to talk about what happened that summer,
where you say we haven't talked,
where you say that if we had talked,
Jan 24

Escape

(My colors are very different from what they are supposed to be. There are a lot of purples that are missing, which is really weird. Any idea why that is?)

When I look
around I see pain and
unacceptance and
a world of hurt. So

I close my eyes
and paint the stars on my
eyelids and poke holes in my skin
to let out the worlds existing inside
my veins and there

may I find peace.
Jan 19

Disintegration

"She left her socks on the stairs. She should take them to her room, because her socks shouldn't be lying around."
"Did you see her art project? She's so good at drawing, I wish I had her skills with the pen."
"Is it just me, or has she been moody lately?"
"Have you seen her recently?"
Jan 19

The Return of It

Words, like butterflies, do not linger
on the tongue.
Rather, they flit from nose to stomach
and escape 
through the cracks in the walls. 

Butterflies and words and happiness, too,
are things for summer days
and late-night shopping trips.

And when the butterfly
escapes the confines of its cage
it does not stop to say goodbye-
with the blink of an eye it has hidden itself among
the poloroids tucked in the mirror
leaving you with the taste of ice cream
on your lips and secret kisses 
on your neck. 
Jan 07

A sort-of Love poem

I used to write you love peoms
nearly every day. 
I'm sorry it's been a while
I've just been stuck in
this odd headspace where
nothing is brighter than dust and
even you have faded slightly. 

This is not a fault of yours,
but of my stuffed and uncooperative brain.
I just figure you should know
that while I see gray and smudges when 
talking with my "friends",
you break through with tan as
the brightest part of my day.

This isn't a particularly eloquent poem
if it is a poem at all.
But while I can no longer convince my fingers to
write pages of praise of your heart,
I've managed some words to remind you
that you are what gets me to smile
and that's important too.
Dec 30

Being Transgender

It's like... if you had went your whole life being told that you were going to grow up to be a scientist. Every time you were introduced, your parents said "and here is my child, the scientist." And for a while, of course, you believed this. You took all the science classes and struggled through symbols you really wanted to understand. You were given gifts at every birthday that had test tubes and microscopes, and you smiled and laughed and sent the appropriate thank-you notes.

Then, you made friends with an artist. And they told you all these tricks and secrets, and you were confused. You spent hours and days and months asking yourself if you were actually supposed to be an artist. 'But you are a scientist', you would remind yourself. I have always been, and I've never wanted to be an artist THAT bad.

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