I’m reposting the link to review of Nerve Endings here so that it’s available my readership. Also goo see the stuff that Elizabeth does on her website / blog. I’m always amazed at how well she keeps up with the publishing industry and manages to read way more books than I’ll probably read in my lifetime. She’s also a excellent editor and writer, and a wounderful freind.
– This is a poem about dysphoria I felt in high school and how it returns to me sometimes,
even post transition. It’s about my past, present and my future. Its one of the poems I have tried to get into a poetry journal without success. I search for feedback on how to make thing better.
It’s like a ovipositor
It’s not one thing or the over
It looks like them
The ones who have made me cry, alienated me from myself
I’m like a wasp
All the hive is buzzing
All of them busy grey things in this nest
I’m trying to be like them
I’m doing the same things
I’m wearing the same full body grey suit
I’m helping with this grey mass we build
Mud, it’s so perfect a metaphor for my life
I’m like the sunshine on this mud
Heating it, hating it, making it solid
Into more hive
Strife, in a hive is dealt with quickly
I’m not sure why I wasn’t
They did that thing, the attack
I’m not sure I can fly anymore
But they didn’t kill me
Like all the others
I’m sure of it
On this day
This hateful day
Our grey bodies
Ready to go outside
I’m stuck in hear, in my mind at least
Leave the hive, but not really
I’m still grey
Cliff above us to the outside
One of them
Those others that pretend that I’m one of them
They drop a knife
It falls millimeters from my head
Anyone else see it?
That I was nearly dead?
I’m told to take the knife back
All the way up the cliffs
Carry the weapons of my enemies
I’m broken inside
I’m dead inside
I’m never going to escape the grey
I’m in the library?
Not a wasp right now
I’m a reader
Reading about a hyena
Vagina that’s like mine
I’m a hyena?
I’m not, but I am
My piece, my bit feels like that
On the outside it looks like
On the inside
In my mind
I’m out of the hive
Not in grey
I’m no longer pretending
But how long?
How long was it before?
I was outside
Still in their grasp
Like a dog?
I’m trying to be them
I’m also trained
Like me, barking, sniffing, digging, pissing
But secret, shhhh I’m not. I just pretend
I’m not a good barker
7. Ovipositor (2)
I’m not pretending anymore
I still have my ovipositor
But I’m me
In many ways
One day, one day I can
Be all me
All I want to be
I’m as me as I can be
Ask me and I will say so
Every fire in my stomach
Tired of the drive from this place
Gloating firefly in the doorway
Shutting down the black marble road
Crowds shoutout for anguish and drama
Them are surprise to get it, is that the social karma?
Fifty fires, down inside, empathy of the day
Just the frosty icing licks, just the hatful knife that wil kiss
You can touch it sometimes
It’s there. You can feel it.
Like a blank canvas with no inspiration, you can’t find the words to explain.
You look at others. Your like them. You want to be them. You need to be them.
Every thing in your body aches to be like that.
Everything in you life makes sense when you image your life as it.
But they tell you it’s impossible. Or only bad people do this. Or that your not really one of them. Or you can’t be like that.
Sometimes though it’s you. You hold yourself back. You can’t get yourself to be yourself.
Like a tadpole to scared to be a frog.
Like a flower to scared to be a seed.
Like a cloud to scared to be rain.
You exist. You love. You feel. You even try.
People want this person. The one you create. To be the real you. And you try. You try so hard.
Like a green light trying to be red.
Like a camera trying to be a photograph.
Like a letter trying not to be read.
But it’s their. Like the rain falling. The light switches on. The camera takes a photograph.
You can feel this. Here. In your heart. Down in your soul. Telling you. Wishers from a moon. First far away but slowly. Surely. It. Is. Deafening.
And you try to hide it maybe. You try to makes it a secret.
So worth. Your being. Your seeing. Life as you can only continue in a conundrum of being not the you that people think is you.
That little seed. You keep hidden.
It begins to bloom. A radiance that slowly shows.
Then one day.
Your the real you.
And you think. Why did you ever?
And you remember how impossible it had seemed.
And you remember you have so far to go.
But your fuvally stepping.
Like the path that speaks your truths.
Distance doesn’t cure
Closeness makes it worse
New and fresh
Pink and white and brown
Eyes stare back
They are seeing herself
She is no longer the only one
It’s a new day
Smiling at how far I have come
Watching the swish of the dress I have on
Feeling the breeze and the fabric
Feeling the woman I am inside, outside
Seeing those who look
Hearing those who comment
The new dress is a blessing
Don’t need any more guessing
Flowers and blue
And brand new shoes
Wait. Its circles and pears. Little brown wriggly hairs. Sitting feeling this steaming air, thin, gentle presses of them.
Centre to the Isle of might. Try, try as I fight.
Then escape from it all, to a place of light.
This time a dress
Imagine yourself in it
Feeling the cloth
Every bit of your skin tingles with delight
Your feeling freer than ever
Not a illusion, the mirror gives you
Your acutely you.
No one else
No one is telling you otherwise
It’s your day
You start to walk
It’s a lovely morning to be a woman