I’m looking at their faces. At their purely naked

bodies and their ability to push and be pushed.

I’m blown away. Rainbows didn’t exist then,

but the presses did and they were hot and wild

and they were lovely. I’m reading their words

and holding them up to my own heart to see if

they match; I will never be as brave.

I came out to my dad

we were sitting on the couch

watching television. I’d written a lengthy


in the notes app of my phone it

had seemed the right thing to do

at the time.

They pushed and pushed and were pushed out

of windows and onto the spikes of pitchforks

and I didn’t know. I arrived too late to have

known before. I’m looking into the faraway

eyes of a likely-dead lesbian with a sign that


I am your worst fear.

I am your best fantasy.

She’s beautiful. I would have loved to meet her,

to speak with her. I want to meet them all, every

single one. They are all of them courageous and

lovers and lovers always win. Even then.

I felt foolish reading my dad

the memo. like reciting

modern Shakespeare

something equally

dramatic / I felt

really just me

trying to explain,

to figure out

how I should do this

all I should have done

was just say it.

They were selling LGBTQ postcards in the gift

shop. Though I could see a pair of rotten capital

-ist hands all over of them, I bought four in black

and white. In one, a class photo of transsexual men

and women. One of the women wears an apron and

carries a rolling pin.

My dad was quiet

“okay.” what I expected

from him the next morning

he had “googled me” so he


for sure what pansexuality meant

when I was so afraid that

I still didn’t.

I’m looking into their faces, wondering what kind of

people they were. I’m assuming they are all long gone

now. Still they are bold and beautiful and I hope that

they died in bed as someone loved and not at the end

of a pitchfork or a burning pyre. I could probably find

out their true fates but somehow that seems disrespectful

to their memories. Or maybe they’d want me to know.

Respect has to be earned.

I was so scared it was fear.

Fear that I was making this

up (to belong) or trying

to be something

I wasn’t I stayed awake all night

thinking and doing “research”

trying to make sense of it

I’d never thought about it

I was ______ or this

since the beginning

sex wasn’t something I ever

really thought about but love

was and attraction I was learning

fluid for me. That was a relief

I didn’t know I needed

the framework wasn’t so rigid

I could be with X/Y/someone all

of a sudden I could know

that mattered

to me.

“Half God Half Devil”

Your body stretches towards mine

ill flower

with roots as hands

but thorns growing on

the inside covered in sticky

red brine

born this way but

twisted into your own creation


I couldn’t help

but love

your throat covered in

the sins

you couldn’t save

I loved those too

your wrists awash in

good behavior

preached with

living torture

made with lines

drawn in the

sand of my favorite


made of you

misery marigold

“Scrying Mirror”

Sometimes I do not think that I deserve to be loved.

I am strange,



I take swords to my chest, you see,

and I plunge them deep

whenever the corners of my mouth lift too high,

for my own liking.

I then pull them out and push them in again

and again

and again.

The pain of it lingers, though I stopped crying out a long time ago.

The pain of cracking my own chest open,

and hoping beyond hope that I like what I see.

And the hope that you, darling, like it too.