I sat in my car on the side of the road at night, in the rain. I felt the depths of the ocean creep up to the top of my throat; and I finally understood, I finally understood why so many transgender people kill themselves. after years of "she", and "her", and "it". It seems so much easier than fighting the whole world. Proving that you are what you say you are is very difficult when people don't believe what you say you are exists. A song came on the radio that meant nothing, But it was catchy, and because something doesn't need to mean anything to mean something in that moment, I sang along, and got back to driving. Because I already felt dead, so what is the point in wrecking a perfectly good car, just to appease a damaged mind. The last time I felt like dying really wouldn't make a difference, I wrote this poem, and it doesn't mean anything, but in that moment. It did.

-the genderation of binary codes

My god, you piece of shit

For years, I have made jokes and political statements of my masculinities. Wearing them as an accomplishment, a subconscious attempt to earn the word “man”. I have fought, and fought, and fought Myself for pronouns. every casual statement screaming “I’m a man” “I’m a man” “I’m a man”, met with steady eyes and “Shut the fuck up, Van, you have a vagina” For eight months, that is what my lover told me. I would say I’m a man and she would tell me I’m not. I told her I’m a man just to hear her say “No you’re not”. To remind myself that no, I’m not. I am nothing more than a chest binder with armpit hair and ill fitting pants. I have no choice of pronouns; I am nothing more than a dyke to anyone around here; being a dyke is bad enough. I live in a small town with big trucks and straight people. I should be thankful they allow a dyke around here. Where the only thing girls are supposed to say is “I want some dick”. well I want a dick, not because I believe I can’t be a man without one, but because I know nobody will call me a man if I don’t have one. And maybe all of this is why I am seventeen and stare at my mirror repeating “I’m transgender, I am tr-” I don’t even want that word in this poem. I am not writing this for your acceptance, I am writing this for mine. Because I already know their acceptance is reserved for straight or gay but genderqueer is out of the question. The other day my friends were watching a movie with a “tranny” . All they called him was she. Be careful, don’t correct them because: “We don’t need to turn this into a Tumblr post Van” “Shut the fuck up Van” “who cares Van”, and suddenly it’s not my binder compressing my lungs, it’s “she”, it’s “her”, it’s “Vanessa”, it’s the fact that what’s in my pants is no concern of theirs until I want to change it. I am transgender, I’m a man. I will say it every day, every week, all year, for the rest of my life; until there is no more room for “her” in my brain, until I have affirmed it more than it has been questioned. I am transgender, and for years, that will be all they see.

People make love sound like giving someone your sweater, I find it has more resemblance to removing you skin for them, taking away the obvious scars that anyone could see and showing your muscles, the lack of and were they're torn. Where blood pumps the hardest. Let them see what even you believe you're good at. And what brings you to your knees. Telling her all those pesky dreams like "maybe I can sing" and she hears you, both aware that you're no American idol but she says it's beautiful, "please sing for me everyday". Maybe it's the kind of love that can stop wars, though I'm not sure there is such a thing if the story of Romeo and Juliet killed six and wasn't forever. Maybe it's the kind of love that could start wars; cause at our worst days, In our worst fights, I would never walk away I'd fight for you- like I fight the truth in my brain that you might not stay. The only thing I know to be true is you, If intoxication can happen by sight then your face, your eyes, your lips are whiskey. And I pray every day that I never fall asleep from you, only to wake up to a hangover All of these fools saying love Conquers all, like love is a field of flowers, love is a battle field, with thousands of corpses that weren't ready for it, a war with casualties that deny it, the biggest mine field you will ever walk through and there are no signs to mark where it starts, no metal detectors to tell you where you shouldn't step. "All is fair in love and war" makes sense cause they're the same, but you wouldn't know unless you've fought in both. When she said I love you I couldn't stop smiling, like a fifth generation marine headed off to boot camp. But there was no boot camp, I was drafted into a war I did not support, handed a gun I could never shoot, and a vest that couldn't stop her from shooting me. Cause we started out on the same side, but forgot why we were fighting. I never wore my vest around you, I never thought friendly fire could be an issue- It's a white eyed demon that can't be stopped, possessing you whether you know it or not; you're a hafling that doesn't know what you got into, without any holy water you're just a corpse. stitched up from your wrists, Love carved in your chest to your bones, But no rib cage could ever stop this bullet