Fuck all the limited assumptions and labels
that encourage you to view this body as male
because I am a bad ass transfeminine tomboy.
No, I am not your stereotypical trans princess
and I do not exist to meet your toxic standards
so confident in my femininity and expression.
But there is always a voice that whispers to me
and it claims that my feminine is not authentic
so overcome with internalized hatred and doubt.
So when I tell people to go and fuck themselves
for trying to pigeonhole me to false conventions
sometimes I wonder who needs to hear that most.
My mind is like a fierce torrent
of swirling emotion and worry.
A cascade of turbulent showers
awash with dread and anxiety.
And sometimes it’s troublesome
to catch a glimpse of the sunrise.
But when I am in your presence
your breath clears the dark skies.
Weird is as weird does
and weird does as weird feels
because weird feels wonderful.
So feel wonderful and be weird
because weird is not weird
and normal is not normal.
Weird is normal and normal is weird
so weird is beautiful and normal is crude
and to be normal is to be a prude.
Because maybe weird is who we are
and who we are is fabulous and deranged
so be weird, be abnormal, and be strange.
When you come to mind
it’s like a home invasion,
a trespass in my memories.
When you reach out to me
it’s like assault on my soul,
a reminder of the heartache.
When you hold me close
it’s like being held captive,
a prisoner of guilt and shame.
And a child should never
have to feel this hopeless
about someone they love.
I take all blame
on my own shoulders
even though I know
I am not alone.
I’ve never hated you.
You’ve carried me through this dangerous world,
despite the assumptions, the shame, and the violence.
And yet the world decided you were nothing if not male,
but they never asked you, in all your clarity and wisdom.
They could never understand that you transcend their vision,
that you are far more than their assumptions and stereotypes.
Because you are the vessel that carries my soul home,
towards that luminous beacon on those distant shores.
You are my salvation.
What is romance?
What is this deeper connection
that we define as somehow separate
from platonic care and affection?
How do we draw the lines
between the romantic and the sexual
and how they affect our relationships?
Romantic attraction. . .
Sexual attraction. . .
Platonic attraction. . .
Aesthetic attraction. . .
Sensual attraction. . .
What are the differences?
What are the similarities?
Theoretically I know the answers,
but how do I navigate my own feelings?
Maybe I am not meant to understand
this abstract concept called romance,
and maybe there’s nothing wrong with that.
Maybe I am not broken after all.
Dim light shining through my bedroom window,
the glass covered in rain droplets and thick fog
obscuring the outside world in a sullen gloom.
As the droplets cascade through the dense haze
it reminds me of tears falling from despondent eyes,
of a smog that obscures all bliss and contentment.
And yet this overcast and dismal source of light
is all I have in the solitude of my own bedroom,
isolated in a sea of consuming darkness and sorrow.
My own bedroom is a prison cell with a barred window,
chained and unable to move from the warmth of my bed,
depression and anxiety are the wardens of my captivity.
coiling around me,
bursting from the earth
that is my own flesh.
A deep and hollow rumble,
the vibration in my chest,
that feels like an earthquake
rather than my own voice.
A tumultuous flood,
rushing water over barren soil,
intrusive thoughts and emotions
the deluge of my own uncertainty.
A prisoner in my own vessel,
exiled to these desolate lands,
a constant struggle to feel at home
in the caverns of my own soul.
This might all sound hopeless,
but our eyes tell a different story
of a limitless and expansive galaxy
that is our own to explore.