OVERDUE
Early March
at the metro station
overpass bridge
of all the scenic places in the city
I chose this place
It reminds me
of the last time
I felt love for my partner.
I ignore the hillside
where a giant white cross
pierces the clouds,
ignore the west-side boroughs
illuminated by the orange horizon
overlooking the Pacific
as evening approaches.
I bypass the graffiti-covered
concrete walkway
lining the pier
where people fly kites
and laid out blankets to cuddle
reminding me
I am about to lose that.
I sit on the overpass bridge
to feel the metal
send vibrations
through my body
as each train that passes below
massages my soul.
I need to feel
the way back to myself
before I can navigate
busy streets filled with vendors
negotiating prices
selling vegetables.
Because this evening
I can no longer procrastinate
on negotiating back my sanity.
Judging Judys
Lesbian events are no place for a tranny.
Trans women are unicorns.
We occupy the liminal.
Liminality is shunned by those who
reject ambiguity,
where their club card carrying mission statement
revolves around US vs THEM
Have a penis or male bodied?
Doesn’t matter how gorgeous you look, honey
you ain’t one of us according to feminism.
Since women social police each other
it only takes one member to drink the Kool-Aid
to forever reject a cock carrying person.
Even after I dropped my psychic cock,
I’m often seen as a THEM man
in a group of women who act
like they hold a safe space,
but really uphold the victim mentally of US women.
Tolerance is only given because the acronym
LGBT ends with T,
but I can see in all the dyke faces,
even during pride month,
how the eyes scan a woman and instantly accept or reject her
based on their own dating preferences
rather than the validity of the other’s soul.
Insecurity runs the show,
for the times I showed up coupled,
the threat of my biology was no longer an issue.
The sexier my partner
the more standing I held when socially policed.
Women loving my ass.
No one hates women more than other women.
Y’all see trans women as guys in a dress
but still cry for cisgender men cops
to rescue you when your female partners beat yo’ asses
and add you to the statistic of 44%
domestic violence for lesbian couples.
Nine percent more than heterosexual women.
No ambiguity in those stats,
but y’all bitches ain’t ready for that conversation.
Accountability is the kryptonite
to keep the scary Clark Kents in dresses away.
Can’t Imagine
I imagine living in a world with no need for keys
and people don’t think only me me me
People don’t lie on their Facebook
with a fake life perfect on the surface but in reality they are crooks
I imagine living in a world with less exhaustion
Where love is the currency and the economy is driven by compassion
We don’t choose between fitting in or being who we are
Everyone has the opportunity to go far
I imagine we won’t see this in my lifetime
Because old patterns die hard regardless of reason or rhyme
So I sit back and watch the world engulf itself in crime
As humanity wastes its precious shine
Heart Proximity
“It’s the mileage of the car, not the year.”
That’s what I tell people
when they ask my age.
It’s the amount of love we shared,
not the fact we were only together for seven months.
Ever since we split,
I learned just how much of an accomplishment
it is to get out of bed while carrying a broken heart.
Simply making my way to breakfast
is a win.
Accumulation of small wins
still hasn’t restored my identity yet.
I simply lost too much of myself
I still don’t know where half of my heart is located.
Perhaps a portion will always remain in Chile,
so it can be close to you,
even if only by proximity
9mm Leverage
A five millimeter lever
holds enough leverage
to upend all the chaos
in my soul.
A few ounces of lead
holds the perfect cure
for what ails my heart.
I can see the flash
but I won’t hear the pop,
as the bullet of choice
travels faster
than the speed of sound
I can imagine
how much of a mess
it would make on my lambskin rug,
the forensic team complaining
as they sift through
my day-old exposed brain
With no note left behind,
my family and friends
would have no closure,
just like I didn’t with you.
Just like how I don’t know
if you ever loved me,
or were all the dances
that we shared
with your mental illness?
Birdcry
My nephew asked me the other day
“Do birds cry?”
His father,
the one I used to call my brother,
chuckled.
He heard funny;
I saw inquiry.
My nephew wanted to know.
Like a sponge craving water,
he wanted to know about the birds.
“I’m sure birds get sad like any other animal,” I said.
Being warm blooded doesn’t help either, I thought.
It means without something
to keep our body heat up,
we can freeze to death.
And it’s those lonely nights
that are really cold for me.
Happenstance
As someone who values depth
who prefers to go an inch wide and mile deep
instead of a mile wide and an inch deep.
As someone who knows owning her internal queer identity
is more important than having the external packaging
that merely looks the part,
with tattooed arms, large gauge ear plugs, and nose piercings,
I know my PPP – or potential partner pool,
is slim.
As in, very slim.
Once you’re at the top two levels of the pyramid
you can only relate to the three adjacent blocks next to you
and the pointy one above.
Yes, I could talk to the hundreds of blocks at the base level
but modulating myself is quite costly
like a thoroughbred trapped on a farm
or a Ferrari stuck in second gear.
Dating is worse than playing the lottery
My possible match is perhaps out there
but I’ll likely never meet her.
She’s probably in some noodle restaurant in Singapore
wondering where her tall petite Chinese American tranny is at
You know, the one who left her aerospace engineering career to instead
write about social issues
Or she’s in Berlin at some BDSM club tickling her submissive plaything
with the back of her flogger,
wondering when we can make out,
but neither of them have the money or desire to come see Los Angeles.
And me?
I got tickets booked for a summer trip to Europe,
because depth is something one works for,
and luck is all happenstance.