Loved One in the Blast Zone

what are you when you're invisible?
divisible?
the summation of your parts ignored
beyond threat, beyond het!
beyond reproach.

what are you when you're concealed?
a rusty mess of feelings,
a rising crescendo.
you'l come crashing down,
and you'll be sure to keep it quiet
when you convulse

there's a handful of rooms.
there's a scattering of wounds.
we pick across the landscape with great care.
drawing breath sharply, not unaware.
there's a ghost with the most who's got your number in the post
and it'll never arrive and that is never going to be totally fair.
the solution is simple; do not despair.

what am i when i'm poked?
what flames will billow forth from my maw when i'm stoked?
there's a high, there's a low, there's every which way we could possibly go
and I'm stuck, given up, not quite sure if this is enough.
it has to be enough.
i'm about to flare.
i'm about to flare and it has to be enough.
there's gonna be a blast wave, a ginger haze,
checking my mileage by clocking my top speed
reeking of weed
and leaving you flailing and complaining alone in my blaze.

what are you when you're invisible?
what am i when i'm divisible?
 it's not debatable that i'm imitable!
i make the illegible accessible, the archaic is defined;
i'm the tower of course, a tour de force, and i'm sight out of mind.
what are you when you're despair?
what am i when i flare?
and what will be left of any of this?

we shall see.

Every Thought a Future Arrowhead

There's a corner in a white box room that's seen a lot of me,
Especially the parts that I don't want you all to see.
There's a cupboard that I live inside as if it were analogy,
A place to hide, a place to lick my wounds and wait until I'm free.

But that's a narrative that I don't think you get to walk,
The human garbage locked in limbo, waiting to emerge.
Like Sisyphus who rolled a rock until he stopped to talk
With some unearthly hero who wouldn't help him stop.
"How are you, who are you, thanks for coming down to Hell"
as if he owed a demigod bastard anything.

I'm supposed to hide away if there's a fire,
I'm supposed to close my eyes if there's a cry.
It's too much to risk, too much to risk,
The life of a trans woman isn't worth piss.
They killed our kin with poison pricks
- and if that isn't a sign of the times!
They're still doing it for kicks.

I don't think that I can be helped in the head,
and I know I'm in trouble when I'm out of bed.
It's a fine state of features when dangerous creatures
are lurking with sharp stones,
and there's a rhythm in my bones
and a corner where I dump my woes.
Nobody knows.

Getting respect when you feel like a beast in this heat,
When the mothers of brothers who spit in the street will assault,
and revolt at the sight of your eyes, your hairy thighs,
your "mutton-dressed-as-lamb" lies - surprise!
If I don't make a move then none of you assume
that I'm in this room, this room, this societal womb that is the hidden place
that everyone expected me to go to, to throw myself away to and to conform
or to absorb and perform and eventually settle down -
to calling myself my birth name, to choosing a home town -
to marrying or not marrying; but knowing why and knowing how
to having a gender
to not being an offender, scarlet-lettered and wavering,
to being repaired and no longer impaired and no longer a rabid dog,
a grunting hog, a pillar shaker, a Quaker who abstained from bullshit training and complaining.
And what's the deal with the constant simple explanation?
And the little expectation?
Better to do away with it.
That's the pathway to respect.

There's a corner in a white room that's seen a lot of me.
It eats up that desire to remain in mediocrity.
It eats the memory of names and faces
and far away places
and I will never return to myself.
Assault, revolt, disrespect, misdirect,
Lock up your binarist families as I walk by,
a dagger in the heart of St Paul.
All the better, to assist his permanent fall.