EraLiving isEra by ~sense-and-stupidity
four months ago,
I was in the house where I
wanted to kill myself;
three days ago,
I considered reintroducing the cuts
to my hips, but I did not.
Living is the
two seconds that pass
between when I think about
the way I hate my body,
and the way those two seconds
are always enough to stop me.
Living is saying
it changes daily.
three years and four months ago,
I had never thought about eating unhealthily,
my skin was taut and smooth as tain,
and I was happy.
I am happy now
even though two seconds from this moment
suspended in the fog, I
may lay down on the floor and
make myself into an angel in the
I have laid myself
in the imprints of
I feel the ache
of my amputated wings
in the silence
I am happy now.
the ghostly limbs
of where I was before
where I am now.
It is ignoring one, and answering the
other, right call:
the one that draws me southward, home.
On Being Loved By a Transgender PersonThe first time you kissed me with your lips naked andOn Being Loved By a Transgender Person by ~sense-and-stupidity
stripped clean like your slim shoulders of all their shields
- nervously layered shirts and vowel sounds -
I felt my body turn convex against yours.
We were like two petals lying complacent on the wet blacktop;
no matter how hard I threw myself against the gravel, I couldn’t make our bodies
graze without feeling myself shriveling a little on the outside.
My heart was bemused.
My skin was dismayed by the goose-bumps you conjured
at your touch: slender and trying to appear strong. There was never
any part of you that I would ever be able to describe correctly,
but I still felt you haunting me,
especially when the Portland sky
erupted down on us, weeping like a willow tree.
It always erupts here;
the rain always comes pouring down
and each time I turn the corner between my dorm room
and the stairwell to go down,
I imagine I see your red rain-boots dripping dry
in that same water-marked place where they used to be.
Red was your sa
The Gun is ShotThere is a rhythm, a pattern, a maddening repetition to this world that I cannot and will not fathom. The watch comes at fifteen minute intervals through the night. I wake to the door creaking on its hinges, a square moon of light slipping on the linoleum, and, for a moment, I truly believe I will die here, finally perish to the silent call of the reaper: his cloak catching on the doorknob. But it is a woman’s voice that calls “checks” to the dark mass of my body beneath the blankets. I swallow my scream with my morning dose ofThe Gun is Shot by ~sense-and-stupidity
anti-psychotics, dumped down my throat with mucus-y water at 6 am each and every day. My head hits the pillow and my dreams tangle with the narcotics seeping through my system: for 65 minutes I am a prison mate digging my way out with spoons for fingers. 7:30 jolts me awake to fingertips that do not bleed as I assumed, and a body that aches like an untwisted coat hanger.
I drag my corpse along bleached hallways smelling of ment
things i cannot doi cannot sleepthings i cannot do by *ohsostarryeyed
and most certainly stay asleep-
with the black edged creatures
trembling at the corners
to trap me in tendrils of nightmare,
i shift too emptily for peace.
i cannot brave an appointment
i need hands to hold
this broken ship
caught in the waves with no crests.
i forget about the things i love,
but things i hate include
how i am haunted everyday
how i cannot seem
to call him by name
or directly address him-
there is no "you"
in my words,
only fear and flashbacks.
i cannot leave an unfinished crossword out of my thoughts
just like a relationship that had tapered off;
i cannot let go of things that have melted into my grip;
i cannot break a heart