Poem Version of What I Want to Write

Your Facebook posts are really beginning to piss me off.

I mean seriously.

First, you don’t even follow sports and the NFL protests bother you?

Aside from the fact that your white privilege is showing (again),

Why do you even care?

Why is that the thing that upsets you?

I don’t get it.

Because, the 21st transperson has been murdered so far this year,

And, yet, you say nothing.

How dare you rage at the NFL protest.

Men and women have fought and died for their right to protest.

For their right to take a knee,

For the police brutality,

For the racism inherent in a broken system,

For the lives lost due to hate,

For the injustice.


And second, you are retweeting organizations who support him,

Who are actively trying to take health care from children,

Who are trying to make it so that a restaurant can turn me away,

Who are going to stand by and let the gun violence carnage continue.

Some of those people you retweet, believe I am “Satan’s plan”,

Simply for me being me.

And you retweet their thoughts, mocking transpeople, mocking me.

And, it just sucks.

And, it hurts because I thought you had my back.

I thought I could count on you.


And, third, when you text me,

Text me and pretend that everything is alright,

Like everything is okay,

I can promise you, it is not.


To Consider It


I would consider it.

But, I need one thing first.

Okay, it is more like two things.

I need you to tell me how you feel about him.

And, I need you to tell me what you feel about the statement.

Tell me, how you felt when he called Mexicans rapist.

Tell me, how it is okay to brag about grabbing women “by the pussy”.

Tell me, how you feel when he lies again and again.

Tell me.

Tell me, your opinion on Adam and Eve.

Tell me, your opinion of “a homosexual or transgender self-conception”.

Tell me, what you believe.

Tell me.

And, I will consider it.

Because, the next time I see you,

I want to know exactly, precisely the person you are.

Of Flying

As a child

I dreamt I floated away

In a hot air balloon

Sunset hewn clouds passed me by

Until I could not see the ground


I floated endlessly

Past other worlds and lifetimes

Beyond everything

Floating into nothingness


I wonder why that is the only dream I remember

That and dreaming of flying

And flying

a lie

you know


science fiction

that kind of stuff

it’s all just escapism

there’s nothing real in it

there’s nothing of substance to it

so I ask you

what are you trying to escape



I lie.

only ants

my doubts and hurt and core, an opened bag of campfire marshmallows

          small, puffy white clouds of saccharine self-loathing or hope

and, one by one,

          up the wall,

                    over the ceiling,

                              tiny black specks of six-legged politics, anger, hate

                                        slowly pierce through to revel in the sugared madness

the six-legged line, unending, continuous

          carrying away pieces, little by little

                    on repeat

The Way Things Are


I am just going to say it.


It sucks that this is the way it is.

It sucks something fierce that this is where we are.

It really does.


It is like when you realize there is no magic in the world

      like when you realize that your heroes have failed you

      like when you see someone’s true colors and those colors disappoint


Rough, huh?


I have been here my entire life,


I don’t feel at home here anymore.


I see things differently now,

as if the picture has been finally and fully revealed,


I don’t feel at home here anymore.


Yet, I think the thing that hurts the most,

that strikes at the very core of who I am

is that you don’t seem to see


I don’t feel at home here anymore.



if you do see,

it doesn’t seem to matter.   

To Survive

We all do things.


Things we have to

in order to survive

in the moment.



it ain’t pretty,


we do them

in order to survive.


Things that may be forgiven,

Or things forever etched in memory.


Look, I need a break.

And, I could go with the whole,

“It’s not me. It’s you” routine, but

I won’t.


Because, well, the truth is,

It is you.


It is you because I am tired of pretending that everything is okay,

Like everything is normal.

It’s not normal, and

Things aren’t okay.


I am okay,

No, really.

I am.


But, what I mean is,

I am not okay with


Specifically, you.


I am tired of being disappointed in you,

In you as a person.

And, I am continually reminded of this disappointment

Every time we talk,

Every time we see each other,

Without fail.


It is exhausting.


And just for clarification,

In case you are a bit lost,

I am disappointed because of this,

You and your actions have shown

That you are not with me, and

You don’t really have my back.

And, of all people, you were supposed to be there,

To catch me if I fall.

But, you aren’t there,

And now,




I am beginning to wonder,

If you were ever really there at all.


Hence, the disappointment.