megaphone

mama said that I was the devil, made this journey here a waste, made too American and too unruly couldn’t I just wear dresses, make money, and behave? mama said leave this house, her spirit broken by ache all my belongings freckled the streets I slept outside, spirit stayin’ up, my journey isn’t self-made

i don't understand what sort of memories i'm supposed to have. one where i didn't go with my boyfriend to the movies every friday, where i didn't waste my time looking at shoes or eating at el mesón? maybe one where i didn't lie to my family for years, faking i was the good daughter, or one where they don't tell me it's okay, as they step outside to water the plants.

If you’re the kind of person who wants to kill people like me, come here and take my life. Feel how hard it can be for how easy I have it: for the whiteness of my skin, for how I do not need to fuck someone who could kill me legally just to eat and make rent, and for how I tolerate so many misreadings and how those misreadings make me less interesting game for your hunt.

I am a ––––––––––––––––––[man] same suede black as their ––––––––––––––[durags] People ask me, –––––––––––––––––-–––––[boy?] & I answer with  ––––––––––––––––––––––[fists] My  ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––[friends] Cry, ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––[Kill-mo,] Prying the dirt from  –––––––––––––––––––[childrens’] buckled teeth ––––––––––––––––––––––––[again]

My straight friends tease me because all my best friends are my ex loves, but a wise heart told me it’s the most tender part of queerness—how we’ve all lost so much family when we find people we call family, we’ll do almost anything to not let go.

The way that hunger kicks & is a living thing; The starvation carried in the stomach like a child; The diagram of the procedure; The body turned in on itself like a bloody glove; The pill that births this body into woman; The pill that murders the potential of a child; The body hollowed to a broken vessel;

Your nurse who calls this body Sir. Your doctor who calls it Ma’am. Your doctor who mistakes my breathing for sickness. Your doctor who lifts my shirt & loses my spine in the tight mangle of my back. I am always first the crookedness of my body.

[arabic the in as left to right from read be To] impossible are اسم/س like bodies are so + one having ugh what supposed i am fuck the day it with do to wake i day after try + it into up up way the all it fill to

a father and his son lean their heads against one another, in their childhood home, only the father was always a myth in the making.

possible rite of passage #37: graduating from outrunning the block’s dogs to outrunning the block’s police.

A good person gives and asks for nothing in return. I give and I ask for only one thing— Hear me. Hear me. Hear me. Hear me. Hear me. Hear me. Bear the weight of my voice and don’t forget— things haunt. Things exist long after they are killed.

Their beauty is a razor. It disappears. My beauty, it blooms.

naming you I have found another way to send my body back in time to claim how she wants to be touched