being trans is a bit like
running hands over yourself and thinking
“i cannot wait for there to be a scar there
in the place of something else”
to know that all that will be left is the mark
a tangible reminder of how the creator wronged you
and how you made it right
I would go through it all again for you
a hundred times
but I do not think I would still be me
when it was over
i have crawled so far on my own without you
that i am starting to think i can stand.
and I would rip myself apart for you,
crack open my ribcage and let you
take whatever you wanted.
but you have been teaching me
that you do not need me to,
that I do not need me to.
To be loved means to be consumed. To love means to radiate with inexhaustible light. To be loved is to pass away, to love is to endure.
—Rainer Maria
when you killed me, did god see?
did he look down from his opulence
did he see, in his glory
the death of a child
at the hands of the father
i think he did see
and in my eyes he remembered
when he looked away
at the death of his son
and turned a blind eye to my suffering
pictures where the sea and sky are no longer distinguishable
suspended in a bubble of hiraeth
the tear frozen on my cheek
in the subzero sunlight,
my home is a person,
and they are too far from me
The Winter, Alexandre Calame, 1851
21. poetry, stream-of-consciousness, musings, aesthetic posts
64 posts