Writing

last year,

I did a school debate 

of why 

trans athletes should be able to play in sports

I lost

and I cried

because my teacher

let us pick topics

YWP is the springtime crocuses you have been waiting for,

the flower in the snow

YWP is the golden hour

poetry flows 

Walking home alone.

She spots a man nearby.

He whistles, shouts a lewd comment.

She tries to ignore him at first.

He yells again.

She calls back, laughing nervously, "Maybe another time!"

He doesn't listen.

I write longhand.

Journal, pencil, print.

Letters melding together in a harmony on the page.

Graphite scratching the paper, pencil sharpening every 5 minutes.

Lined paper, perfect for doodles and random thoughts.

I wake up under covers or chains,

Alone in a bed I didn't sleep in,

Clothes like a straight-jacket around my limbs,

My thoughts locked in the prison of my brain.

Outside it is snowing—a cotton cover,

This is not a political poem

It can’t be

Because I need hope

And I cannot find hope in such a divided world

I mean, look at us

Left versus right