summer stumbling

you'd say,
"c'mere, honey,"
and you'd pull me up against your itchy sweater.
"sorry bout the beard sleeves," you'd say.
i wouldn't give a damn.
i'd tell you, "yeah, i bought a sweater once
with a puppy on it and i still can't figure out why.
that shit was itchy."
you'd stare off into the distance while i'd feel stupid-
my head on your shoulder,
yearning to look where you looked,
face forward, unattainable.
i'd want it more.

you told me my voice outshone the others.
"pffft," i said, "not likely."
i tossed and i turned
and only recently learned
how badly i wanted to quiet yours
with my lips
let you know how i felt in my signature
i-don't-know-what-to-say-so-here's-my-mouth
style.
but you might've tossed me out.

"please don't be straight,"
i thought the first time i saw you.
damn, i fell for you so hard
i ended up on the linoleum at your ghost feet.
telling lame jokes,
"my sweater must have 50,000 cat hairs,"
breathing your boozy breath deep.
you could've told me anything,
i'm up for all your stories.
i don't give a damn;
i'd be content to watch your diamond lips dance.

you'd play a record,
pull your muscle shirt over your head,
envelope my bony shoulders.
your soft whisper would burrow through my ears,
balloon into my lungs,
and trickle down my spine.
your hunger would fill my legs,
and my brain would be comprised
of truffula trees.
gasping for air, searching for a seed
of self respect.
your sweater would itch under my bare back,
forcing me to focus on
the film of sweat between our bellies.
95 degrees, no ac,
and i'd be happy.

think outside the box

"honey,
why don't you like this dress?"
mom asks as we pull out shiny
baubled sweaters and itchy scarves
at goodwill.

"it's your size."
"it's not my type."
"what do you mean?" mom laughs.

what do i mean?
let me think. what the hell do i mean?
i mean that after 20 years,
she still can't tell that i'm not comfortable
in dresses.
20 years and i still get the fitted shirts
with "genuine girl", flowers, and american flags
patterned across them
thrown out at me in the aisles.

but what do i mean, not my type?
ever since they put that oozing jelly
on her belly
i've been a girl.
since they stuffed on the pink hat.
since they put me in "daddy's little girl"
onesies.

i never had a choice, a type.

they put us in boxes -
1 or 2,
pink or blue.
what do you mean you don't fit?
the hell is wrong with you?

GIRL or BOY
oh, my bad -
BOY or GIRL
because we know which comes first
we know which is #1
you'd tell your son to choose the blue bike over the pink
and by the time he's an old man,
he'll be tellin his little boys
don't touch those barbies,
you ain't a homo.

dude, don't put that ariel picture on your wall;
you're not a girl.
put back the pink backpack;
pick up the football.
cut out the girl push ups;
save up for your first motorcycle.
forget the long hair;
cut the gay away.

hon, why are you playing with race cars?
there's barbies in the other aisle!
there's fake pockets on your pants?
that's what purses are for!
why don't you do your makeup?
some nice blue eye shadow -
your eyes will pop!
oh, not that they're not pretty already.
don't wear a bra to bed; your boobs won't grow.

so? BOY or GIRL, which will it be?
you think an ultrasound can tell you
the gender of that thing?
they haven't even learned their first word
haven't even cooed,
haven't even gotten a whole scrapbook
dedicated to them
but wait-
pink scrapbook
or blue?

there is no third color, no other.
the yellow walls are only for the unfortunate,
undecided,
unannounced,
unsure,
uncomfortable.
we laugh at the stunted yellow ones,
the gender nonconformists.
the hell's wrong with them?
you can't cheat the system.

come on! THINK OUTSIDE THE BOX!
they chant in school.
if you wanna get in the group for smart kids,
think outside the box.
think outside the box.
forget everything they've told you;
throw it away for an hour.
all 10 years,
all 3650 days,
all 520 weeks,
all 87600 hours,
and that ain't even counting leap years.

so tell me,
how do i think outside this box?
because i'm pushing and shoving and i haven't
felt an escape route for 20 years.
you keep telling me it gets better,
but i'm suffocating here.

oh. that's why.

i am the box.

july

we always fought for mom's favoritest
and between us 3, we knew my brother was out;
it was either her or me.

i didn't have to cross my fingers
i was the youngest, clearly the specialest
and she was just a middle child

in a couple years, i pulled
her fishnet shirt over my head.
i convinced myself that i was her.

maybe she was the favoritest after all
since she got to leave, make such a big scene
but not for long - all the screaming,

the eavesdropping, the heavy metal -
it all fell silent. you couldn't hear
a damn thing. and in the silence

and the heat of her bedroom,
the posters peeling off the silent walls
forming the same small closet she begged

to trade me for, i realize
i guess i won after all.
this is what i wanted,

what we competed for.
it's what i wanted.
isn't it what i wanted?

why we don't hang out

you know in the movies when someone says "you make me nervous"
and the romantic interest is totally enamored with them?
like, they make you nervous - and that's a good thing?
well, that's my cue to leave -
when a flame sparks my nerves i throw water on it;
back off, far, far away
where you can't find me.
probably my bed. you'd know, you were there.
i'm a rockstar in my head
and we can't talk without flirting.

i don't wanna look over and see you watching me.
don't wanna sit on my hands
while i watch your smooth fingers shift gears
in your truck
parked at the bottom of my hill.
you didn't want an audience
and i just wanted to trace
your lips with my fingers
clutching at my booty shorts,
staring a hole through the monopoly board
far from your candy eyes.

the eyes that were trained on him
when you knocked over that trash can
in that closet of a classroom
where you said i didn't seem gay.
we had the same class,
mine later than yours.
i knew where you sat, rubbed the desk
where your big fingers were,
played along like i didn't want you.
and now it's over,
all i have to show for it is one lousy phone call;
one oh-my-god-there-he-is in a cafe.

you asked me why we don't hang out
and this is why
i'm scared of the past,
anxious for the future,
but mostly
nervous about the present.

humid blue

my dress was baby blue,
like if you added pastel food dye
to a toddler's vomit.
it was ruffled, too;
chunky.
i'd just spit it up
on the car ride over.

my glasses pushed themselves up my nose,
sweaty heart slammed into my ribs,
fingers clutched the dress -
the ruched bottom,
gathered and floral,
vintage and mine.

i can't even remember where i found that dress.
maybe aj wright. probably.
my dresses never fit my boobs
if you could call them that
and this dress wasn't fooled
by my slightly oversized tan bra
so
my mom sewed the top together
to hold in what? - no idea
but i tugged up the straps
over my worthless bra
as we sat on a burning bench
and you went,
"no, don't pull it up."

i didn't look
to see if your eyes were twinkling,
baby blue in their glee.

you know

they say you can only find true friendship once in a blue moon
now i know that shit is true cuz
talkin bout it's not me it's not you
then who is it, cuz it's not my cats
not my fish
not the fuzz between my toes
or the dirt under my green nails
not my pretty face, my mannish face

tell me why you mad when you're fuckin up
pushin me away when i get too deep
tellin me watch out, stay on my damn feet
i can't live in a fairytale when my income is 77% of yours
i'm just an angry feminist demanding open doors
well grow my pit hair and you'll be scared
tell me go to france, try to fit in elsewhere
maybe a gay bar or a graveyard

i am an ocean

i am an ocean
twisting and turning,
you would groan under the weight
of my mind that remembers

you said french style green beans are a sin
you said it was a pleasure
to talk to me for 6 hours
to tickle me at a concert
when you knew i'd shriek
just as lauren was about to sing

that was the first time we let our guard down
when i leaned over and kissed your sloppy lips
in my bedroom with beautiful women hugging the walls
i brushed back your hair and thought,
baby, you're beautiful
in all your femininity

and i didn't even think i could've wanted something else
that i was wrong
maybe we were the sin, not me, not by myself
cause how can one atheist defy any god
you were not meant for me

you probably don't remember my green bean preference.

i am an ocean,
salty tears lapping up the gasoline
of your temp job at the pumps.