My arms
they are like
train tracks
but the trains have
stopped running
and the path I follow
only leads me further down
and I am so tired

I do not stitch
hands shake too much
for that
but I will carve
the words
into the tender flesh
of my *******
boy
boy
BOY

Being myself
my TRUE self

May as well just
push me
down the stairs
and end my suffering

Whatever is is
any tighter
and
it'll **** me

There used to be
stars in my eyes
constellations
on my skin
but now there is
nothing left but
black holes
and scars

Scorpio
and ox
set in my ways
my own
worst enemy

“have you masturbated yet”
no i haven’t
“do you even know how to”
yes i understand the mechanics of it
you put a couple of fingers in and
wiggle them around

“why haven’t you masturbated yet”
i lied when i told you that there was
a short answer to this
either answer involves yelling
and screaming so loud
that a fire blossoms
in the middle of my chest
and my voice cracks
and people can hear me on the
other side of the restaurant

this is not a quiet answer
it is not a quick one
it is the pull of a trigger
right into who i am
and it is a cruel
slash at my insecurity

have you ever heard of
****** autonomy
or maybe personal space
questions that
a grown man
an elderly man
should never ask a teenager
let alone a transgender teenager

and the age gap
42 years
a year younger than my mother
doesn’t make this a friendly thing
it makes you a pervert

(but i will answer this again
so more people than you
can look at me like i am
even more of a freak
than they originally thought

i do not *******
because looking at myself naked
even before getting into the shower
when i brush my teeth
and my ******* swing
like twin pendulums
over the basin of the sink
i want to cut it all off

and no
at this point
i do not care if i bleed to death
i have been bleeding for years
since that first person asked me
if i was a girl or a boy

and no
you do not understand
because you were not born
in the wrong body
you have the hanging anatomy
between your hairy thighs
and the biologically male on
your birth certificate
as proof of that

there are no
scars on your arms
or on your chest

parts of you are not going to
be cut off
and scooped out
so people will see you as
and address you as
male

so do not pretend that
you understand
because you do not
and you do not try to)

“you’re a horrible person for not voting”
i know
“it’s a chance for your voice to be heard”
my voice isn’t heard already
so i don’t see the point
and you know perfectly well
what i mean
when i say that

my voice hasn’t been heard
for years
and years
a long **** time
my voice sounds foreign to my own ears
when it is caught in the echo
of someone else’s

but to your government
and your president
i am invisible
i do not exist
i don’t even have a shadow

my people are murdered
and all they get is a hashtag
my people **** themselves
and all they get is a hashtag
all i will get is a hashtag
years and years of life
reduced down to one
#restinpeace

I dreamed
makes more sense than saying
nightmared about
dying
taking my life
I choked on stomach acid
and blood
it felt so real
and it just kept happening
I thought I was in hell
I thought I'd never
wake up

I will do this
even though
her skin burns my lips

for when I kiss
the stars mapped out
on her skin

she lights up like
the sun on a cloudy day

and my heart soars like
a bird to be burned up
by her light

After 72 hours
without sleep
insanity sets in
but what is worse
a caffeinated blood stream
or bruise-like hollows
under lifeless eyes?

Abuse
mental emotional verbal physical
Neglect
Alcoholism
it's lasted way longer than that
and not just seven
it's enough for a
life-time

Even
when
I
don't
want
to be
found

Carrying books like
one would a baby
nestled in one arm
and tight against the hip
he wonders
is he an idiot
or just nostalgic
heart-sick with memories
of him and mother
reading together
and she called him
her little girl

Love rips out your heart
***** you dry
but the exhaustion is welcome
because it means that you're
still alive

I will not
for I too
look forward to
an eternal sleep

We are ugly
with bitten-down tips
shaking and smeared
rough sides from the constant
indentation of teeth
moles and scars
some on purpose
other paper cuts
litter our surface
we feel and caress
the paper and the pen
the book and the laptop
hangnails caught on fabric
yet still we come back
we are hands
nimble and quick
always hungry to create
wanting more and more
the need to make beautiful
things overwhelms us

The cradle
his home
made from coat hangers
stray hairs from pink plastic brushes
and twigs and sticks
pressed up against his mother
sharing her warmth

One day though
he wakes up
mother gone
and no home left
down on the ground
instead of up in the trees

Little bird is so cold
and all alone

Stickers pressed hard
on to the ceiling
held tight against the paint
with an unwavering
child's belief
that the stars and planets
would watch over him
while he slept
and the moon was his
first friend

The number of days
means nothing
when one has only been
surviving
for years

Afraid of the dark
yet I live in
shades of gray

I used to be able to
count to a thousand
and walk backwards
with my eyes closed
and these were
to my little kid self
great feats of skill
but then
later in life
I resigned myself to the fact that
I would never feel close
to how alive those
small things had made me feel
but then
there was her
and when she left deep purple
hickeys up the length of my arm
nine in total
one for every letter of
her name
they were only on the surface
of my skin
but I felt alive
all the way down
to my bones

I have never really
written letters
just poems
but if the letters
I were to write
would make you feel
beautiful
then I would write
you letters
everyday

I am not a liar
I'm just a writer
but my imagination
my mind
is a rabid and
hungry beast
it eats everything
devours it whole
but it only spits one
thing out
and that is a lie
the lie is
"I am fine"

i smell earthy
like wood
and the logs that i brought in
ignoring the shaking in my arms
from all the weight
and i didn’t complain
because the wood chips
and splinters
stuck in my sweatshirt
hide the stench
of unwashed hair and skin
and the ever encompassing
fear

and i wonder why
my fingers and palm are not
big or strong enough
to grasp a log with one hand
and heft it up on top of
the others already held
in my trembling arm
but my hand is big enough
to dwarf a child’s

and warm their small hands
between my own
the way their small fingers
clasp onto mine
make me want to cry
because to be needed
and wanted so desperately
and wholly by someone
is a feeling
that i am not
used to

That's right
*******
my body
my skin
this flesh prison
is mine alone
and just because I
swam down the length
of your birth canal
does not make me
your property

I am a poet
am I
really
well I guess I
could be

I know how to
write in stanzas
and hit the ENTER key

My fingers
and the sides of my hands
are ink-stained
cut me open
and I bleed
blue black and red

I have learned
to tame the demons
in my head
with a well-placed
smattering of words

I can write worlds
into existence
and if I really tried
I could write down stars
into a jar
to hold on the coldest
of nights

So yes
I am a poet
an author
a keeper of words

Something that really disgusts, and ruins shows for me, is when the writer's resort to demonizing transgender people as a shock factor. This has happened in Criminal Minds, and X-Files, and most likely a lot of other shows I've watched, that I don't care to remember right now. It is literally just so tactless, and horribly transphobic, and, for some of us, it can be triggering. I am not a monster. My brothers and sisters are not monsters. But, how we are treated by the media, THAT IS MONSTROUS. I am not a shock factor or a scare tactic. I do not go bump in the night. I am up close and personal. I am real. I am a human being, too. And, most of all, I am sick and tired of crap like this happening. It all leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

the moon stayed inside this morning
she must have been
bringing you home

the first time i pledged my allegiance
to something that i didn’t believe in
i was in kindergarten
it was my first day in a real school
not just preschool
and everything was so big
it smelled new
and the floor still squeaked
under my shoes
but then the teacher had us stand up
behind our desks
we put our hands over our hearts
and faced the flag hanging near the
door at the front of the classroom
little hands over even smaller hearts
and i lied my way through it
because i knew
even back then
that there was not
liberty and justice
for all

this went on for years
and every time i said those words
every time i pledged my allegiance
to that piece of fabric
i felt sicker and sicker
and it made me even more angry
because it was so unfair
and watching the news made
me cry
and the world
was still eating itself alive
and all i did was stand there
with my hand over my heart
and mouth along to the
words that my classmates
said with such conviction
but with such robotic tones

then i stopped
sure i still stood for the pledge
during assemblies
but there was nothing left
in me
i had no more belief
and allegiance to give
to this flag
because it was not a symbol
of strength and togetherness to me
no not anymore
it only reminded me
of how different i was
and when the pledge was spoken
when our trust was promised
people like me
were not included in that liberty and justice

The most accurate tag on a blog post that I have ever used has been #transgenderRAGE.
2. The first hospital psych ward that I went to, they put a little sign on my room door that had PRIESTLY typed out on it with little puppies on the sign.
3. The orderlies there used male pronouns and referred to me as Priestly. Which made me feel better.
4. But, when I confronted the main doctor there, name rhymed with “cranberry,” he accused me of using identifying as a trans male as a diversion tactic.
5. I hated him, but bull shat my way through the sessions and got discharged after a week.
6. Months later, cue the next hospital visit. This time, it was just a diversion tactic so I didn’t off myself. Had my therapist drive me down there, I was surprised that she didn’t put on the child locks. Though, I never have thought of throwing myself from a moving vehicle.
7. In that ward, they just couldn’t accept the fact that, even though it wasn’t on my birth certificate, that my name was Priestly.
8. They used parenthesis, quotation marks, and had Sarla as my first name on my door.
9. My name is not a parenthesis.
10. My name is not a quotation mark.
11. My name is NOT Sarla. Though that is a beautiful name. San skrit for precious and all.
12. I am not a thing to be swept under the rug. I am not a girl. I am a boy. My name is Priestly. Do not down play me. I am not a “diversion tactic.” I am a living, breathing, feeling, beautiful boy.
13. My name is Priestly.

i have never been sexually assaulted

but i have been abused

since i was just a little boy

i was seven years old

and i felt so alone

and wrong

and hated

and everybody just

told me to smile

like that could

make the bruises on my wrists

from my mother dragging me around

fade

like it would make the hatred i felt for myself

go away

and i have stayed up all night

talking to my friends

so they wouldn't hurt themselves

or worse

and they did the same to me

and the circles under my eyes

and coffee on my breath

were taken so lightly

but how could i go to sleep

mother

knowing that my friends

had the power and

reasons

to end their own lives

to tear open their skin

to swallow handfuls of pills

how could i

how could i

and you yelled at me to go to bed

but ******

i couldn't

because they had done the same for me

even on school nights

but you don't understand

because this hasn't happened to you

but to me

it is very real

it is happening now

it is all i know

the yelling

the crying

the blame

the abuse

and so much hatred

for you

but mostly for myself

and you do not understand

because it has not happened

to you

dear you
before you take my mother out after work
keep her for three and a half more hours
than she would usually be
please remind her
that she isn’t like you
and has a family at home
waiting for her
with hungry bellies
and open arms

please remind her
that she has a son
that has literally not seen her
for three days
he needs her
and he wants to know
why she can’t even look at him
he needs to know
where his mother went
the one that used to
let him wear his favorite purple
footie pajamas and rainboots
as they walked down to the store
for ice cream bars
and held him
when the nightmares got too bad

dear you
before you take my mother out after work
and send her home
in your bright orange jacket
reeking of you and liquor
please remind her
that she has a husband
who has loved her
for seven years
even though she continually drove him away
she has a husband
whose eyes light up when he sees her
she has a husband
who broke down his barriers
so he could hug her
and hold her close
without that ever-present fear of
her slipping away
again

please remind her
how happy he makes her
how happy she makes him
and the house that he lived in alone
for so long
is finally more than just a shelter
against the elements
it is a home
but it can’t be that without her
  
dear you
before you take my mother out after work
please remind her to at least
call her son or her husband
to tell them that she won’t be home
to make dinner
and that her son will get to eat
a store bought dinner
for the second night in a row
and then it just sits there
and stares at him
screaming that she isn’t at home

please remind her
that she has people to
come home to
a husband
a daughter
and a son

please remind her
that she has a family ******
and we need her

please remind her
that even though
she can’t look her son in the eye
anymore
he will always need his mother

please remind her
that even though the liquor is
warm in her she has a son at home
that is so
sick and tired
of raising himself

I've had kind of a love/hate relationship with Katy Perry since middle school. Ya know, back when there were Heely's, and all of the students listened to Hot and Cold over and over again.

Back then, though, I was just discovering Marilyn Manson, and that was pretty much all I listened to. I was angry. And just lonely.

But, then, I heard Firework. It was just the audio at first. Probably on the radio. I was intrigued by the song. It resonated within me in a way that not many things had in a very long time. So, after hearing the song on Z100 a couple more times, I YouTubed the song.

Of course, that was before I got my own laptop. So, I sat out in the living room, on my mom's laptop, and just sobbed pretty uncontrollably while watching the music video over and over again.

The song, and video, really helped me to feel better about myself.

Around this time, I was also pretty heavily into my "emo" phase. Like, the Black Veil Brides tee, ripped skinny jeans, a horribly dyed fringe, and that ever-present black nail polish. I kept telling my mom that I wanted to change my name to Raven.

This was also before I came out as transgender. But, Raven is a pretty androgynous name. And, I really connected with the character from Teen Titans with the name Raven. I idolized her. I connected with her very heavily. I wanted to be her. Because, even though she was different and reserved, she had friends that loved her and accepted her for who she was.

I didn't have that. With my friends, I did to an extent. But, at home, it was just bad all around.

Cue Katy Perry and Firework.

I listened to the song so much. It was my go to when things were really bad at home. The song kept me going. In a way, the message behind it, kept me alive.

So, really, this song gave me the courage to be myself.

I listened to it a lot before I did finally come out as transgender.

But, then, I stopped listening to it. Because, I wasn't allowed to be myself in my house. I mean, my own mother didn't take me seriously until I tried to **** myself. Actually, more than a year and half, and two more hospitalizations later, she's still pretty bad about it.

Then, last night, I listened to this song for the first time since coming out. And, I sobbed. Like, full on head to the desk, fingers gripped in hair, sobbing.

I didn't realize how much I had missed this song. But, I did realize how far I have come from that scared sixteen year old girl that told her mother she was a boy. I have come so far. I really have. And, even though things seem bad right now, they will get better. I will get better. I will keep on growing as a person. I will stay alive. I am going to do this for myself. I owe this to that sixteen year old girl standing in her kitchen, fists clenched, and tears rolling down her cheeks.

i didn’t **** her, you did.

I have felt you for years
since the tender age of seven
before the onslaught of puberty
you nestled up under my ribs
closer and closer to my heart
you snaked your fat little fingers
up and into and out and around
the tender caricature of life
and when I was cut
it is you that seeped out
but no please don't think that
I was trying to get rid of you
I wanted to be closer to you
to hold you in my arms
for I was the only one that could
heed and hear your childish cries
for years I could feel you
curling around my brain stem
seeping into my addled brain
you were the cough medicine that
soothed not only my throat but
also the depths of my being
and I couldn't wait to meet you
I died so that you could live
this is not something to be sad
or to place blame about
because I saw you and the way
that life surged through you
how your toes curled and your fingers
closed around the edges of new life
I saw how you fought
to keep your eyes open
and I am sorry if I scared you
I just wanted to say goodbye to
my dear family and friends
but they couldn't hear me
and you felt that pain as well
but ****** Priestly I gave you
a second chance at life
so live it to the fullest
I will be watching over you
you're gonna do great kiddo
Love, Sarla

I met jesus
in a Powell's bookstore
we were mere ants under
his mighty boots

We took turns
following each other around
he left trails of blue ink
all along the book spines
and I wanted to lick it up

He bought my
coffee and a two day old scone
the only question he asked me
was why I didn't believe in him
when I said I didn't know

He said that
it was okay because
sometimes he didn't
believe in himself
either

I met jesus
at a simple little bookstore
and realized that
he was nothing more
than a man

how to thank you
all of you
but the specifics are
painful
and they feel like
trying to write on my skin
as a child
but the pen had no ink
so i just scraped the nib
back and forth
and called it good

so thank you
thank you all
you are the reason why
i stopped hurting myself
why i started eating again
why i am able to wear short sleeves
the smile on my face is even bigger than before
you taught me how to get up again
even when all i wanted to do
was lay down and give up

you taught me how to make the best
of a bad situation
how to believe in myself again
i love myself a little bit more than
i used to
i can cry freely now
and speak up when i need to be heard
but i can also sit and be quiet
when the time comes
and i wish my arms were long enough
to wrap you all up in my love
and if only i could hug away
your broken pieces
but ******
those are what make you you
and i find them beautiful
even if you may not

you taught me how to
open myself up again
break down the walls around my heart
i can see the light now
and it’s not just an oncoming train
and honestly
i thought i was doing fine
in my old and dark days
but then you all came around
and ruined it
and honestly
i could not thank you more

i first started hating my body
when i was seven years old
it was christmas eve
and by then i was too old to believe
in santa
but we still put out cookies and milk
for my little sister
and i asked my mom if i could
eat the cookies and have the
milk that year
she just looked at me
like i was an idiot
and asked me if i wanted to
get even fatter and be
just like santa

that was the year that i
also decided i hated christmas
i mean sure
i still loved giving and receiving gifts
and the family and friends
but the two week break and the
endless snow days were the hardest
because that meant that i had to
spend all day with my mother

because by then
she was done with being christmas mommy
all smiley and cheerful
and loving
only saying nice things
and had gone back to her
bottle and blunt

my fingers and toes were cold
as the years wore on
and in our white house
the toilet water in mom’s bathroom
froze solid
because we didn’t have enough money to
heat the whole house
but we sure as hell had enough money
to buy liquor

but liquor doesn’t make
a rumbling tummy quiet
and the warmth from brandy
only lasts for so long
before the sickness sets in
so i turned to vanilla extract
just a quick swig now and then
and i was warm
but not as warm as my little sister looked
with mom’s arms wrapped snug around her

and the canned food drives that went
on at school
i brought in what i could
giving up my lunch or dinner to
those that needed it more
but we were always on the list for
the food baskets
and the gifts from the school sants
and the cardboard boxes of
food from the church pantry
wielded nothing but
slits in my skin that burnt even more
with the cold
and dusty oatmeal for breakfast

it’s gotten better though
it really has
there is food in the cupboards and
in my belly
though i would rather not eat
but mom still comes home smelling of liquor
and christmas mommy still loves me
more than year-round mommy
ever could
ever will

Last Friday, 11/20/2015, I came out to my class as a transgender male, in the name of Kantian Ethics. This type of ethics is named for the German philosopher, Immanuel Kant. The basis of his ethic is very similar to the well-known Golden Rule, though his version is worded in the older style of dialect: “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
His version of the Golden Rule is the first of three in The Categorical Imperative. The second one states, “we can’t predict the consequences, so actions must be governed by what is morally right.” The third, and final one is much more blunt, stating, “we can’t use other people as a means to an end.”

The debate we had, where one side was for Kantian Ethics, and the other side was for Utilitarian Philosophy, was sparked because of a short story by Ursula Le Guin, titled, “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas.”
The short story is set in this fictional, utopian, town called Omelas. Everything is good, and all the people are happy. There is no need for drug-use, and the town is really up to the reader’s imagination to be described.
But, underneath all this seeming contentment and utopia, a darker secret lies.

In the introduction to this darkness, the author writes, “In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room.”
In this room, a child lives in fear and squalor. All the people of Omelas, children and elderly alike, know that this child is there. The child has no name, no discernible gender.

The children of Omelas, usually between the ages of eight and twelve, are told about this child. Sometimes young people come to see the child, and again as adults.
Most times, no matter how this matter has been explained to them, the young people witnessing this child, this pitiful thing, are shocked and sickened.
Again, more often than not, since the young ones are not inherently evil, they would like to do something for the child. But, they cannot.
For, if the poor child were brought up out of that basement...cellar...that horrible dark place, “all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms. to exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed.”

“The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child.”

But, there is one thing that may make this realization less terrible and shocking for some: sometimes one of the young boys or girls who has gone to see the child doesn’t go back home. This also happens for older men and women. They just leave. They walk away from Omelas, alone, west or north, towards the mountains. They do not come back. They keep walking.

Being transgender, I feel for this child a lot. But, I also feel, and relate with, the people, young and old, who walk away from Omelas.
When I was seven years old, and still living as a female, I realized that I was different than the other young girls my age. It wasn’t just that I hated having my hair long, wearing anything but sneakers, ripped up jeans, and baggy sweatshirts, and was never a fan of dolls. I just felt, wrong. Not right. But, I didn’t know what it was. I just knew that when my mother called me her little girl, it made my stomach hurt. I thought I was sick. A freak. Why couldn’t I just be my mother’s little girl?

This is where the child at the root of Omelas’s happiness and purity comes in for me. I was living inside of myself. I was the parasite under my own skin. But, I did it to keep my family, and my friends, happy. I stayed quiet. Because, I have always put others before myself. I shut my true self away to keep my own little town in the sun. To keep my own little world spinning on its axis. For, if it were to fall out of orbit, I did not know what would happen, but I did know that it would be bad.

I stayed in the metaphorical “closet” until I was sixteen. Nine long years. Trust me, time moves the slowest for a child. A day can last a thousand years.

But, then, I had had enough. I had my new name, my big-boy-boxers on, and short hair. I was ready. I exploded out of myself in a burst of bright colors. I walked away from the gender norms that society had forced upon me from such a young age, I didn’t even know what they meant. But, on that day, when the angry sixteen year old boy walked away from the childbearing and rearing, the dresses and daughter, mother, sister, I knew that I was never going back.

I knew who I was. Who I had always been. And, my rage was beautiful, and absolute.

i will stick to your teeth
am i spicy
or am i sweet
either way i will
bring back memories that
will make you cry

back when it was just
you and your little girl
and there wasn’t enough money
for a beach trip
but you still bought her taffy anyway
and the two of you sat on the
front porch
watching the world move by
and you gently washed the
taffy off your daughter’s face

but when your little girl
became too big to hold
when she squirmed away from your touch
and screamed about the bows
in her hair
you wondered where your baby girl
had gone
and it was hard to love her
because she was a stranger
to you
and to herself

and now your little girl is gone
leaving an arrogant
angry and impatient boy in her place
but ******
he learned it all from watching you

and now this boy
wearing your little girl’s body
eats a bowlful of taffy
trying to fill the black hole
that you left in the middle of his chest

is this boy spicy
or is he sweet
he sticks to your teeth
dries out your throat
makes your stomach hurt
and you resent him
for taking your little girl away

Soldier
a gruff voice
over and over
right between my ears
duck
swim
crawl
shoot
shoot
louder and louder
my brain shakes
from the weight of
his cruel words

No
I say
in a clear voice that
does not shake or stutter
this surprises me
again I say it
No No No No
I will not do those things
I do not know how to
shoot a gun
probably point it at myself
I am a human
I am not a hammer

Listen
he pleads quieter this time
sit down across from me
let me show you my scars
look how my eyes water
look how my hands shake
I am human too
I do not know how
to be a hammer
I am too gentle
only know how to hurt myself
don’t look at me

Sat
down across from him
I avert my eyes
taking quick furtive glances
now and then
I catalog his messy hair
his cracked and crooked glasses
the bad teeth from refusing
to get braces again and again
the blood crusted around his nostrils
turns my stomach painfully
looking at his scarred arms and blunt fingertips I say
you’re no soldier

A
quiet and broken whimper
escapes him then
surprising us both
on instinct he reaches across
the table for my hand
he smiles weakly when I oblige
and murmurs
no I am a soldier
but not like them
I do not fight for
my country or for theirs
I fight for us for you

Understandably
this takes me by surprise
and when I look at him
more closely I realize he
is not wearing fatigues
we are dressed the same
except his clothes are
more tattered and old
he is me
only more haggard
and there is no familiar outline
of bandages
under his shirt

Smiling
sadly he pulls up his shirt
revealing crescent moon scars
where his ******* should be
the only familiar thing
about his chest and torso
are the ******* and stretch marks
free lightning tattoos
because even losing weight
time and time again
gain and lose
an endless cycle
doesn’t make the past fade

Again
I protest
saying we are not alike
I am not at war
this is all some sick joke
how can we be soldiers
without guns and
tightly laced combat boots
where are my dog tags
and the rapidly beating heart
where is the screaming
where is the war
where is the war

Standing
up he walks around the table
taking my face in his hands
shockingly soft fingers and palms
after all these cruel years
leaning his face closer
the brush of chapped lips
against cold ears
he speaks to my very soul
his words loosen my heart strings
quickens my breathing
he whispers
it’s all in your head

Now
it is my turn to shake
with weak knees
I fall against him
bury my face in his shoulder
breathe in my own musk
we stand silently
******* flush up against flat chest
and then he steps closer
melds with me and we are one
I can feel his heart beat alongside mine
I feel much older
utterly alone

Dear Sarla
people look at me
and all they see is you
I hate that
and it makes me hate myself
you make me want to die
and hell if my pain tolerance
were higher I swear that I
would cut them off myself
because all they see is my
outsides and my double D *******
and even if I carved the word
boy in all caps
into the soft plush of my ******
a little lump that is always too small
to be seen as an ***** *****
they would still only see the
******* shoved away in the back
of my dresser drawer
cuddled up next to my sports bras
that does nothing to hide my *******
and I have been living inside you
for ten long years
my ***** are ready to drop
I even started shaving the little
peach fuzz stache your father shamed
you into bleaching
I let my leg hair grow out
and willed the chest hair to grow
around my navel and then into
the fleshy V
that my hips create
all of my body hair grows freely now
to keep me warm
but mainly to spite you
and ****** what they see
when they look at me
eyes coming up from my crotch
to my chest
is the shadow of a girl
they see a beautiful blossoming
young woman
and yeah okay
I can see that too
you would have been beautiful
but I cut and snuffed out
your life in the middle of the
prime of your youth
I killed you
and have been in the hospital
three times because of this
because of you
and when my first hospital doctor
told me that my coming out was
just a diversion tactic
it felt like the week old cuts
on my wrist
opened up and all of you that
was left inside of me
bled out at his fancy shoed feet
you were pepto-bismol pink
and my empty husk filled up
with the blues of a thousand
unshed tears
I was a raging ocean of boy
my waves crashed onto your body
until you were drowned in it
and then you were gone
but when people look at me
all they see is you
and my blood is blue on the inside
but when they cut me open
they didn’t see the blues
they saw my ******
and my tubes
and the folds of my womanhood
hell yeah though
they still saw my fat
fat thighs
fat stomach
fat arms
fat fat fat
they still see my scars
and my crooked glasses
and my *******
people still ask if I have
a ****
as if my genitals are any of
their ******* business
and probably if I did
get surgery
my cosmetic scars would still
label me as a freak
I still wouldn’t be enough of a
man for them
my ***** would never be big enough
no man or woman would ever be
able to love me with the lights on
because hell
I’m still not able to pleasure myself
your body is a landscape
albeit a barren one
filled with mines
and I am too clumsy to
traverse it
your ******* only become ***** from
the cold and the only wetness in
your boxers is blood
and I am afraid to look at you
in the mirror
because even I can’t will something
to grow that wasn’t programmed
from the start
and even the friends that never
even knew you
they hold you over me
I’m not a boy because I haven’t
had The Surgery yet
what bathroom do I use
I don’t count as a boy because
of my huge ****
I can’t be a boy because
I like pink shorts
and the only things that have
change are my name
and my hair
I am a *****
a girly boy
but ****
I’m enough of a man for myself
I will never be a mother
and I will only let them ****
me like a man
the swaying of my *******
as I bend over a constant
reminder that I am wrong
but the only boyfriend
I’ve had since sixth grade
only asked me out because
he had a crush on you
I have to tell people that I am
a boy and remind them of the pronouns
that I use
over and over again
but technically I’m still a girl
well technically *******
honestly though Sarla
I wish people would be able to
see through to me
because when my light does
distinguish I don’t want to
be buried in a dress
don’t want my mother to cry
over her little girl
I think my sister would cry
for me though
she calls me her older brother
and once called my ****** a peen
she has come around
with flying colors
and she really gets it
I know that when it seems
like the world is against me
I will always have her
she sees through you
to me Priestly underneath
and Sarla
as long as I have her
I know I’ll be okay
it makes the wait for people
to come around a lot easier
I love my sister so
and someday you really will be gone
***** and period and all
I’m going to have a proper burial
for you when I get home
but until then
I’ll take good care of your body
and I know you’ll be watching over us
Love Priestly

one. love
love?
i used to know what that meant
or at least i thought i did
i assumed it was what i felt
when i looked down at my little sister
sleeping next to me
so peaceful
none of the fearful yelling
that i needed to come and pick our
mother up off the floor
when all i wanted to do
was leave her lying there

two. safety
no
that is a filthy lie
one that i told myself many times
because i needed to be there for
my sister
protect her
look out for her
shhh
keep quiet
don’t let her know how much
mother scares me
how much i want to die
i feigned safety for the
sake of my sister

three. whole
foreign
concept to me
too young to understand that
the empty pit in my stomach
wasn’t from hunger
though i felt plenty of that
but it was from where the love
of a mother should have been
so no
i have never felt whole
i am hollow
the wind whistles through me
and that is the only sound i make

four. empty
familiar
i was comfortable with this one
no longer surprised by
the lack of food in our cupboards
and fridge
though the presence of all those
**** liquor bottles were an
ever-constant presence
at least mother dear was consistent

five. acceptance
please
don’t make me laugh
i only know what this word
means because google told me
heard it whispered on the
stinking ***** breath of
family that were not my own
but oh how i wanted to stay with them
i needed a place where i felt
that i belonged
that i was wanted
even if i was a jagged edge
to their smooth togetherness

six. abuse
nightmares
are not the only aftershock
of this
the taking of a childhood too soon
i have the scars
albeit self-inflicted
and the bruises
that are left deep in my psyche
and even now
being a young man
and bigger than her
i am still too afraid to fight back

seven. broken
jagged
glass embedded in my feet
and the palms of my hands
throwing away every sugar-coated lie
that she ever told me
that she loved me
she would always love me
no matter what
and then i grew up
well
at least my body did
my hands and fingers got bigger
shoulders wider
legs longer
but my heart
my poor heart
just shrivelled up
inside of me

eight. loss
*******
you act like i took your
daughter away
but no
she was never there to begin with
a gender forced upon me
that i didn’t even know the meaning of
and all because of my
******* genitals
all because i have a womb
instead of being able to *** standing up
and that is all anybody sees
my outside
my *******
my ******
but i am more than my body
i am so much more
i have to be more
i have to be
right?

i know things
i feel things
i see things
that no young man
let alone a child
should have been through

but it has left
me with something
besides tracks of scar tissue
and internal organs shot
to hell

call it a super power
a left over
an after shock
but i can see it in their faces
and even if they have laugh lines
and little wrinkles around their eyes
no matter the crinkling
something in their face is just
so **** sinister

and i see them
with their plastic smiles
and their clawed hands
the empty beer bottles
and the ripped up hand-made
cards and pictures
this is no childhood
and i want to run away

i am surrounded by them
these fake people
these picture perfect
skin-deep parents
and suddenly i am
a little boy again

i am so afraid
sleeping under my bed
so i cannot be found
curling up under my desk
biting my knuckles so i do not
make a sound
because no matter how much it hurts
i do not want her
to see me
to hear me

i am only a little boy
smaller than my mother
and she is so tall
i cower in her shadow
shake in the vise-like grip
that she has on my wrists
my upper arms
my shoulders
and the bruises may fade
but the trauma nightmares don’t

i am so scared
my mother is the big bad wolf
she can swallow me whole
her teeth are longer than my arm
and i am so confused
i don’t know why she is so mean
why she hates me so

i am just a little boy
and it all hurts so much
mommy mommy mommy
please don’t hurt me
please don’t yell at me
i can’t just laugh off the bruises
and your angry voice ringing in my ears
mommy mommy
please

all of the inspirational posters
say that you should not
be afraid to be yourself
be unique
be beautiful
be different

but ****** anyhow
that is easy for them to say
with the little kittens
and the multicolored #2 pencils
when they have not walked in
another’s shoes

it is not okay
none of it is okay
you should be very afraid
to be yourself

in a house built out of
your mother’s angry words
and the blatant fact that she
doesn’t accept you
and the disappointment in her eyes
whenever she looks at you
makes you want to have no eyes

Bottom line, depression is a cruel mistress. I know this for a fact. In the worst part of my depression, I didn’t just suffer internally, but externally, too. As in, my personal hygiene went downhill. I hid certain parts of it pretty well. Greasy hair can be hidden with a hat, unbrushed teeth with minty gum, three days of the same Tee shirt with a sweatshirt. What couldn’t be hidden, though, was the state of my room. I could have easily cleaned up the various messes. But, I didn’t. Probably in a wain attempt to get my mother to realize that I wasn’t okay. She didn’t, though, and I was just left with the mess.

charlie bradbury
did you know that the
only time i said i love you
to someone
since mom died
was in a flashback
to the memory of my mother
but that’s because she needed to
hear it
that dad still loved her
and so did i
i loved her so **** much
i wanted to make her proud
i wanted
i don’t know
i guess i wanted to watch her
and dad grow old together
but us hunters don’t get
to make wishes like that
unless we are willing to sell
our souls
and i probably would have
just to have her back
to see dad smile again
so sammy would know what it
was like to have a real family
instead of an alcoholic ******* of a father
and an emotionally stunted
self-destructive mess of a brother

but even
if they all knew my intentions
behind the deal
raising the dead has never been
a good idea
i know that for a fact
and ten years would never be
enough to make up for
decades of not knowing the
soothing touch of a mother’s hand

then you
waltzed into our lives
saved our *****
and as a thank you
we broke your arm
and not for the first time
but you just kept on forgiving me
i wanted to ask why
because i had done you more
harm than good
but then
when you just kept on saying it
through the blood and broken bones and pain
i knew that you weren’t just forgiving me
for hurting you
you were forgiving me for blaming everything
on myself
for not being strong enough to carry
the whole world
for not being able to save
every person

but charlie
i never wanted a little sister
i didn’t need another family member
another person
that i loved with all of my heart
that i would die for
i just couldn’t let you down
that would have killed me

but you
just kept on picking me
up and dusting me off
telling me to keep going
you helped me to believe in myself
and i believed in you too
i loved you
to the point where it broke my heart
because i knew that i couldn’t keep you safe
but you’re not a little kid anymore
you can protect yourself
and i know that
but it’s always nice to have
a helping hand now and then
and that’s what you were for me
that’s what you always will be

“i love you”
“i know”

******
the first time that i saw you
something woke up deep inside me
a thing that i had not felt in so long
it hit me like a lightening bolt
like the first time john got drunk
and took a swing at me for mouthing off
but instead of a bruise
that nobody asked about
because being a hunter causes these kinds
of things all the time
just a casualty of the job
dad said to explain it all away
this thing
it shot through my whole body
starting from my toes
sizzling up my bowed legs
sammy said that they were for the
better to carry the weight of the world
on my shoulders with
and it exploded behind my ribs
but not like a broken rib
this felt good
but in a terrifying way
i was so scared
that i acted the way that i was taught
growing up
in this friggin life
and i stabbed you
god baby i stabbed you
and if i could take it all back
i would fall to my knees in front
of you
and beg you to take me back
to make me whole again
to make me a better man
a better son
a better brother
a man that mary would have been proud of

and
i kept on seeing you
for so many years
you healed my wounds
my cuts and my bruises
my broken bones
you placed your hands on me
my face
my shoulder
you made me believe
in angels
even though god is absent
you made me believe
in sammy too
even more than i already do
and you told me
time and time again
that i deserved to be saved
you showed me
with a determined set to your shoulders
fists and teeth clenched in
naked and vulnerable honesty
that even sinners can be redeemed
but since
“****** dean you are not a sinner”
that i didn’t need to be redeemed
“i saved the world
i saved you
i saved sammy
i saved you and you and you
it was always you
when all i wanted to do
was lay down and die”

you
just kept on giving and giving
emptying yourself
for me and my kind
this world full of godless heathens
you rebuilt me
from the ground up
made me into a good man again
but it began to take it’s toll on you
your grace dulled
and your eyes didn’t shine as bright
though they still lit up when
you saw me
and sammy
but your shoulders
they sagged beneath your
ridiculous trench coat
that yeah i kept in my trunk
for that hellish time without you
and i cried into the dusty fabric
when i found the picture of sammy and i
in the pocket
and your hardships
and selflessness
they showed through
your tough demeanor
and i’m an angel you ***
mantra but i know what it is like
to hurt
to want to die
but you always made your mistakes
with the best intentions at heart

and
all of your scars
and wounds
because being human hurts
and the drugs
because you wanted to see
the colors again
only made me love you more
i wanted to keep you safe
and even in the midst
of your insanity
you said
“you know me
always happy to bleed for
the winchester”

but
****** cas
i wish you had let me
bleed for you
maybe just once
i would have gladly
carried you
when you were too tired to walk
and et wouldn’t go home
because he loved his human charges too much
and we love you too
cas
we love you too