Poetry

Let’s exude light as we laugh at nothing squashed like sardines in the subway car with the other nine-to-fivers. Let’s hop in my car and drive to the city so I can dance next to sculptures like there’s actually music in my footsteps again. Let’s lay on our backs and look at the stars as they pixelate the sky, and then let’s look at each other, so I can see the same sky in your eyes and your skin. Let’s touch the grass for God’s sake- let me paint you, or at least try to; my brush and lousy hand do nothing in comparison to the sheer magnitude of magic your existence carries into my life- don’t go. Let’s age a bit and put our feet up for a change; we can hold hands as I attempt to learn Mandarin and you laugh at my mispronunciations- I’ll always know you mean well. Let’s hop back in the car again and pursue New York. For a city that never stops to admire the sun, we’ll see a hell of a lot of people singing on street corners and blowing bubbles in the park. Maybe a man will walk past the taxi cabs, handing out red and pink roses after his shift at the florist shop ends- would you take one and give it to me? I know you would. I hope you will. Let’s let our legs dangle out of the window of our apartment. We’ll eat sushi and talk about how we think the Earth was made and concoct theories as to how the hell we are blessed enough to be living at the same time as one another. Let’s dance next to the man who plays his cello on the corner of Broadway. Let’s drive to the park and swing on the wooden swings and talk about where the time has gone as I kiss the splinter on your finger and remind you that all wounds heal. All of them. 

–Let’s remember that there will always be wonderful things

Structure inspired by Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl“

1. Use both your index fingers to push the testicles in so they recede into your body; don’t
   come out to your mom yet; when you do end up coming out to mom, don’t do what I did;
   come out on your own terms.
2. Tuck your penis between your legs; hide femme clothing where no one but you can find
   it; increase your vocal resonance to make your voice sound more feminine; when you use
   the woman’s bathroom, don’t bring attention to masculine features such as your voice.
3. Bring one of your hands around and pull the penis close to your buttocks from the other
   side; be assertive so people don’t misgender you like they did with me; don’t get
   pressured into falling under a particular label; don’t feel like you always have to dress
   and act femme in order to be a woman.
4. Bring your legs together to keep the penis in place while you pull up the underwear; don’t
   cave into all the transphobic bullshit society loves perpetuating; don’t believe the idea
   that you are transitioning for perverted sexual gratification; don’t conflate your gender
   euphoria with sexual pleasure — your joy for being a woman is genuine and innocent.
5. Make sure to use tight fitting underwear as opposed to tape or anything else that would
   cause irritation; this is what you should do when guys start cat-calling you; this is what
   you should do when they call you crossdresser; this is what you should do when they call
   you a transvestite; this is what you should do when they call you a tranny.
6. Above all else, make sure the tuck is comfortable; don’t view yourself as inauthentic
   because, as we both already know, gender is a fucking construct; reveal your gender
   identity to those who you feel with knowing; this is how you create a wide support
   system; don’t end up isolated like how I was when first discovered my identity.
7. An uncomfortable tuck will only bring more attention to your genitalia; when this ever
   becomes too much, reach out to me; this is how we will run away if they don’t accept us;
   this is how we’ll find our own community where we can be ourselves.

The days blend together like watercolor. 

I miss the clarity of acrylic paint: 

Its sharp edges and details, 

Deliberate strokes and color matching, 

The way you can see your reflection in the water. Now it’s foggy in the daylight 

And the lines outside don’t connect 

So much as lazily overlap. 

Careful brushstrokes dissipate into careless splotches, And it is not the thing itself that matters 

But the attempt to capture it: 

An attempt that yields to the knowledge of its own futility. So I will not define – I will suggest. 

I will not tell you the truth – I will write you this poem.