It’s Sunday morning and my uncle is telling me about the “levels” of assault, How it’s wrong, but a girl should not be able to have sex, regret it, and cry wolf; How she should have expected that grab when picking out her skirt. And he doesn’t know that His voice is the one inside my head whenever I try to write this poem. I fight until my body is earthquake against everything he believes, But will not call myself survivor. Do not feel the right to my history. The 15-year-old girl I once was shrinks into her corner, As I think of my first boyfriend.

The boy was quiet and safe, until he wasn’t. When I left, he yelled at me for wasting his time, And I learned my body’s worth based on what he wanted from it.

And I still don’t know if I’m a survivor. There was no scream, no protest, no force. Just a 15-year-old girl, Backstage in an empty theatre

The whole of me, quiet wait Stomach churning, Surprised he couldn’t hear the avalanche in my head, I said, hold on. It was all I could manage.
It was not stop, not afraid.
Violence did not live in his fists.
It was not no, but it was there,

And maybe he didn’t hear me.
I did not think to yell,
Did not recognize this in my shallow understanding of consent,
Had not been taught of lack of consent in the absence of violence.
This was no alley.
He was no stranger.
I was not pinned down,
Could’ve run,
But there was no reason to.

I didn’t know the smart words yet.
The 4-year-old in me kicked,
My voice, dead-
Weight
Up against so much
Silence.

I said wait, and he kissed me
Hard,
Until there was only the sound of his breath in my ear.

But I am 20 now, not trapped under the weight
Of a boy I need to love me.
I am in the kitchen
With an uncle who tells me
I have no right to this trauma
And I want to explain how destructive it is to paint dark alley and screams,
Over every statistic,
To tell those who did not know they could say no,
Who were silent or scared,
That they are to blame,
That their stories are not theirs.
I want desperately to make him understand
But in my family of lawyers, the emotion gripping my throat in debate is weakness, not trauma.
And he does not know.

This is a Valentine’s Day poem
because when I walk into an adult bookstore
for a dildo to mail to my fiancé I am caught
by one named after my best friend.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Valentino.
I cut my hair, trimmed my beard,
painted my nails black, purple, then pink.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Michael.
I walked around the lake & then
bought love in a single shattering shape.
This is where I am now: at a computer
in a library nestled between two hills
& for maybe the first time
actually probably understand ennui.

Good evening
it’s me
your darling girl
of the stage
your delicious dollop
of feel-good
confectionery
I’m here
of course
to delight
and inspire you
ask me anything
no really
don’t be shy
open my book
read whatever
you can find
in all my margins
We all know
that the moment
I shrugged on
a dress
I pledged to wear
my life story
on my sleeve

I certainly didn’t
embark on this journey
because I wanted
to hide
it’s not like
I expected
to retain
one shred
of privacy
So take a lick
there’s plenty for all
taste the sweet empathy
savor the bravery
jerk a tear
for the poor little girl
trapped inside
gasp in wonder
at the woman
she’s become
And don’t forget
To add your own touch
My canvas is yours
Paint me slur
Paint me fetish
Paint me inclusion policy
Paint me think piece
Paint me book deal
Paint me Oscar bait

Run a finger
over every inch
trace the stubble
that proves my
femininity
is a daily battle
touch a throat
whose softest tones
fail to cloak
testosterone’s roar
brush nipples
still yet to bloom
after years
of estrogen waterings
Reach between
my legs
to prove
that what is there
does not belong
and how brave
I must be
to pretend
that it does
Now step back
wash your gaze over
this body
this narrative
nod
smile
confident
that you understand
that I am a thing
thoroughly known
that you have honored me
with your highest
regard

during my last week at my old job,
a hawk killed a seagull right above the front door
no hiding the flurry of soft white feathers floating down
in front of the floor to ceiling glass windows and doors
no keeping that ugliness from anyone

now they say that dead birds are bad luck
so i packed my bags, headed south
only to find this new city is covered with chicken bones
i’ve never seen this bird dead, myself
but i think she must have died here

or maybe she died at home,
and i couldn’t leave her bones behind
carrying the body of bad luck
with me
everywhere i go
seagull feathers and beaks
remind me of the ocean
remind me of home
taking my fortunes with me
like my hand is loaded with the suit of swans
the suit of sorrow
the suit called swords

the bird told me herself
you don’t get a clean slate
until you set down your bag of bones
until you set down your bag of shoulds
and i’ve always been an over packer
over prepared
every last bit of bad luck
shoved in my pockets
talons ripping at the seams
bad luck tangled with entrails
oozing out
at the most
inopportune moments
covering every city i step in
with chicken bones
crunching under my feet
every time i try to take a step forward

i wonder if these breaking bones
disrespect the dead
or if i am finally breaking my bag of bones
setting down the pieces of dead birds that i have been carrying
ever since i stepped out the door

When I first read that I thought it was in German,
like to meet up or something scary like that,
and then I just realized I know the rest of time.

What does the stroke order away?
Maybe the nonsense is the crocheted ideas,
and I should make other noises with my mouth
like da da da da da da da and down lazy.

And they might be able to hear you scream like a man.
You sound like a man and you don’t know what to do anymore
because you got what made sense sometimes.

What is the only time I told you things about my life with Paul?
Your eyes keep a secret life of secret
because that’s what you do when you speak.
To go on the stairs and you stand there
and sometimes people know better than sometimes
and sometimes it comes out and talk palms,
like right now your boyfriend tells you what he’s been doing
send you don’t know it all.

On that would be weird.

I LEFT THAT HOUSE
LIKE A BOSS
Like it was my job
except better
because – I’m Not as Good at my Job
as I was at Leaving the House that day

I Left The House
Like I had been Professionally Trained
To Kick Past my Anxiety
Like I’d taken Seminars
in Stepping Around Overhanging Dread
Like I was a Certified Engineer
of Changing My Outfit Only 4
And a Half Times
before getting out the door

Like Agoraphobia had Never been a Question in my Mind

the Bar was Loud
my Senses were Getting Blended
But when She walked up to Me
Stranger in all this Noise
I was Ready to Make Friends
Lean In when
I couldn’t Hear Her
Thinking:
How Hospitable,
How Social, & Outgoing of Me
But then
the Hunger of her Words caught up
to the Eager in her Eyes
reaching out through the Slowly Closing Space BetweenUs
She said
“What was your name?”
She meant
“What is your real name?”
Like
the name I gave her
wasn’t worth the muscles in her mouth

She said
“What was your name?”
like she was asking for her half of the cab fare
like she couldn’t Believe I hadn’t already Given it to her
like Why Don’t I give that out to Everyone?
like it Shouldn’t be such a Big Deal

That name I Pried from the Jaws of my Father
That name I Mined from the Mouths of Friends and Family
That name I spent Hundreds of Dollars
to change on forms
to strip it from my birth certificate
I spent Hundreds of Hours
on a therapist who could persuade the government
to pry Open their Gates to license me to My Own Body

“What was your name?”
And dammit if I didn’t just keep smiling
because growing up in the shape called “girl”
I learned to smile when I felt uncomfortable
When I wasn’t sure what to say:
Smile!
because being Polite was Always more Important
than feeling Safe – right?
Smile! Because I can’t
run away from this question
from the bro at the bar or the woman at my job

Smile! because I can’t afford to
Stop
being that “Friendly,
Forgiving,
Patient,
Always Willing to Educate You”
Transgender Person

Because how Audacious of Me
to assume I could Hold this Name for Myself
Instead of placing it in your teeth
like a still beating organ
Because the Naming of me is a Tender Careful Gift
I have to Trust you won’t misuse
when Being an Ally stops being a
sweat free, entertaining,
feel good Lesson

and Why do you Need it Anyways?
Are you going to Do some kind of Magic
that Requires my Old Legal Name?
like Making my Student Loans Disappear?
Or are you just trying to Prove that I’m some sort of Spy?
Like my DeadName is how you Reveal
the (wo)man behind the curtain

well Guess What
my Gender
is the Prank
my Body
has Played
on Me
since Birth

I’m not going to Give you the Punchline

I am often caught hollering at homeboys
and homothugs in the stairwells of labored
White parties. Kissing spliffs before
familiar tongues. These are our bodies.

My eyes were caught looking at homeboys
and older boys with better bodies and
better masks. Momma said there would be
days like this, boys like you–pretty.

Take the tensions, tender and tragic.
Disrobe to see our reflections in still
waters.

My hands were caught feeling myself.
Alone and with you for the first time,
before we knew the danger in our bodies. I
prefer you holding me-tight, squeezing
infantile strokes, pressing innocence into
careful quiets.

I am often caught in the dark, with
familiar failures, hollering at homeboys
and whispering profanities.

Dear beauty,
you can do soooo much better!!!! than beast!!!!
dear belle, you are lovely! & literate! & sweet!
& beast … well, he’s holding you prisoner!
& if you fall for him, i’m pretty sure that’s called stockholm syndrome!
That’s a little screwed up, beauty.

unfortunately, though, i get it.
see we are raised to believe there’s some sort of romance in our own captivity,
when i was 3
we put beauty & the beast decals all over my bedroom walls,
but i remember even then, he scared me.
i remember having the distinct impression
that beast was not really a nice guy,
He was more like… a jerk.
& belle, your only friends ended up being furniture
because beast had locked you away from everything.
that’s the way he wooed you.. through deprivation.
that sort of happily ever after terrified me back then
I mean he gave me nightmares
so i find it kind of ironic
that now, all i crave are things that sort of kill me.
how now, i inadvertently seek out abusive shit
And then guilt-trip myself over it.
and now, there’s a sort of masochism i can’t quite shake off
& according to the popularity of 50 shades of gray,
it’s somehow okay to crave a partner who will hurt you.
who does hurt you.

belle, when the back of his hand threw you across the room you did not try to escape,
belle, instead of forgiving him i wish you had decided to fly like the wind.
beauty, when his hand hit my nose hard enough to make it bleed
it took me 2 months to leave him, 3 years later & i still wonder if i deserved it.

beauty, please,
do not break yourself like a tiny teacup tossed away.
You are a power beyond words,
your strength is enough to make frozen roses bloom,
you can awaken a candelabra & teapot & armchair with just your presence.
So don’t just settle
for a hairy, mean monster who happens
to eventually let you into his neglected library
the one he banned you from in the beginning.
dear Belle, go for a someone who would readily share their books with you
remember,
It is not your job to nurse a monster back to his own humanity,
it is your job to get yourself free.

so beauty, belle, girl, please… go back to your books,
Read up on all the places you aren’t.
and ask yourself. Is he really what you need
for your own happily ever after?

(The following is a series of failed attempts at writing a complete poem about my mental illness)

I
I am a lifeboat of a body too small to hold myself

II
I like to pretend it isn’t me—the panicking—
It’s something else taking over
I like to pretend
Until it fills my lungs
It’s a frightening realization to breathe yourself out of your body

III
Metaphor is the only way I know how to write about this
Without making it something real

IV
The official term for the symptom is “leaden paralysis”
So much empty, so full of weight
Sometimes in the mornings, I physically can’t lift my arms or get out of bed

V
When I take my sleeping pills, I always have these really weird dreams
In one, I was mugged in Australia in the middle of running a marathon
In another, my parents got back together, but my father was still dead
I didn’t know ghosts could get married, let alone remarried
In this other one, I was in an episode of Glee and I could sing! And the show was good again
And in one—more than one—I tried to hang myself
Oh, and in another one, I was Jimmy Neutron!

VI
It’s hard to write a longer poem about this
It’s made me all loose-leaf scraps and White-Out

VII
I am sick of living the tired metaphor of drowning
But I have to admit it’s fitting for the loss of appetite
I can’t eat if I’m constantly swimming
I mean, you’re supposed to wait 30 minutes before you even get in water, right?

VIII
I’ve read the cover of this NatGeo issue five times
There is a special kind of mutual silence and refusal to acknowledge
That I’ve only really seen between people waiting
At the DMV, jury duty, and my therapist’s waiting room

IX
I pack my bag to visit my boyfriend for the weekend
Jeans, underwear, sweater, umbrella, toothbrush, four medication bottles, phone charger
People stare at me in the Hoboken train station
The pills ratting every time I take a step
One of my friends tied a bell on her cat’s collar
I wonder if it misses being able to hide