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[twocpoetry]

Why I’m Scared to Fight for My People

TW: Trans-misogynoir Story time. So last week, I was out at the Friday inauguration protest. I was angry, and had nowhere to put it. Later on that night, as people from many colors and creeds marched, there was a young Black kid, wearing a marshal vest and chanting his ass off into a bullhorn. I remember dancing next to them in the middle of a crowded intersection, under a dark Chicago night, while “Alright” by Kendrick Lamar played over a tour speaker. It was a moment of Black joy and I ended the night with that energy, exhaustion, and hope. Fast forward to the Monday after, and you’ll find me on the L heading to a poetry slam. I’m wearing my makeup, a red crop top with black lace, and matching black lipstick. As I get off my stop, I see the same brilliant young Black person, DJ’ing for donations at a stop. As soon as we recognized each other, we literally ran towards each other and hugged each other. It was another dope moment… for a little bit, anyway. Less than two seconds after my arms are around this kid, and the person sitting on the bench 10 feet away from us, was right in front of me, and not too happy I was there. Them: May I help you? Me: I- Them: I’m his big brother. Who are you? Kid: Yo, he’s cool! I was with him at the protest! Me: Yeah, I just remembered him from the march, that’s all. I was just saying hi. After that happened, the kid’s brother shot me a look that hurt more than I could describe. He was disgusted with me, concerned for the safety of his little brother at the sight of me (which I understand to a point), but definitely disgusted with the mere sight of me. It cut, cause I was literally on the streets with his little brother two days before. As I told my girlfriend this, she asked me something I don’t know the answer to. She asked me if I could ever feel truly safe around my people as I was fighting for them, and to this day, I still can’t process a concrete answer. This was a real moment of danger for me, and it didn’t even register until after. That person saw me as a threat, and were it not for his little sibling helping me, I might have had to fight my way out of that situation. I’m not even sure how to feel about that realization, to be honest. It mostly makes me think of another conversation I had with Malek. Earlier that week, we spoke about me being in front of punching bag, focus and anger in my face, preparing for a day I might have to protect myself out here. The thing that sat in both of our stomachs, that still sits in mine… is that I’m not sure who I’ll have to protect myself from first.

[twocpoetry]

All I Wanted Was a Skateboard: A Tattoo Story

So I call myself trying to get into long boarding at the age of 28. I have never done it before, and I figure, it’s something to learn for the next summer in Chi-Town. I didn’t have the money to buy it new, so when a post came up on the Chicago Queer Exchange, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity! After a few days of being stuck in this conflicting yet revealing experience known as retrograde (woof), I needed something to look forward to. Interesting enough, and fitting for retrograde altogether, I got so much more than I expected. So I meet Ari, this really chill Trans man from Chicagoland who’d been living in the city for years! Great people, and the board was sick as fuck. It was a longboard with X-Files Decals. CLUTCH! When we talked more, it turned out that he was really in love with the board, and while we was prepared, I could tell he wasn’t super excited about the idea of selling it. I totally felt that in major ways. I thought about all the times I’ve tried to sell my bike to make money, and how I’m glad I never did, cause of how much it meant to me. That’s what this board meant to Ari, and I related in a major way. That’s when I saw his tattoo setup, and gears started turning. Turns out Ari had only been tattooing for like 7 months, but after I saw the tattoos he put on himself, I was like, “Yo, maybe you can just tattoo me instead! That way you can keep your board, and make some money still! Ari dug it, and so we got to chatting. Turns out the tattoo that had stuck in his head the hardest, was one that I’ve been wanting the longest: I was finally getting my @!^-216 tattoo! For those who may not know, 216 is the area code of Cleveland, Ohio, my hometown. It’s also my fraternity nickname from college. I know, me a fraternity man?! How ironic. XP But when I was in undergrad, all I could talk about was how much I loved my city, and everything it had given to me. Years ago, my area code became my Facebook signature, because I always wanted to remember my home. This year, I’ve been feeling that homesickness in a major way, and I knew that once again, I would not be home for Christmas, or any other holiday for that matter. It kinda bummed me out, cause I miss my family a bunch, and this year I even got close, but for reasons I’m not sure I’m ready to voice consistently, I kinda chickened out. This tattoo, this small self care item, which was literally the cost of the board without the tip, was definitely the way to go. So we set up shop in Ari’s house, put on some Screaming Females, and got to work! Ari was super cool while he was tattooing me. We shared stories about our depression, talked about dismantling white supremacy, pets, and how awful TV has become, and how he first got into stick and poke tattoos before getting his first gun. We talked about how he only wants to do Trans and Queer canvases, and bounced ideas off each other’s heads, and that was all before the ink was even in progress! One of the biggest things we talked about was the fact that these were finger tattoos, and how I was supposed to be screaming like a banshee, but instead I was just having conversation and taking snaps of the process. It’s been like this since I can remember. As it turned out, high pain tolerance for the both of us came with the territory of our trauma. Tattoos were healing for us both, because they brought us back to the real world. It was nice to not have to justify my love for the pain to someone, because it made sense to him too. Both us of being major into kink helped solidify this feeling a bunch! It was amazing to see Ari get into his work. There was a moment where something clicked for him, something that hadn’t yet from what he told me. It was dope to witness that happen as his canvas, and watch him get into a solid groove by the time he was done filling the tattoos in. I got to see him finesse the edges that he was nervous to touch with larger needles at first, and the look in his eyes when it hit was one I was honored to be a part of. After we finished the tattoos, I began to notice cool things that had popped up inside the design! On my right index and middle finger, there are now three more meanings: 0.I’m a twin, and both our names begin with V. My twin brother got his V tattoo, and I always told him I’d get mine next! Well as it turns out the ^symbol that I use on my signature gave me my V tattoo when it reads upside down! 0.I’m the 6th child out of my mother’s children, and the 6 of us had been joking about getting Roman numerals tattooed on us for what number we represented. Being the last two children meant that my twin brother now had his V tattoo, and because the exclamation point reads upside down like a lowercase I, I now had my vi tattoo! 0.During a family picnic one year, me and my twin stood back to back to take a picture. Without thinking, I threw up the deuces, and he threw up the middle finger. We repeat this photo whenever we can, and next time, I’ll be able to throw deuces with my triple meaning tattoos, symbolizing my relationship with my twin brother, and my birth as my mother’s 6th child. And to think, all I was gonna do was pick up the board, pay some cash, maybe not have the spoons to ride, and not have all these amazing memories to keep! Now I can keep my city with me, and once again, I can keep my family with me. I’m super grateful to Ari, and how quick he jumped in to give me these dope pieces of art. Like, dude literally traced off his phone to make it happen. It was dope to be one of his first canvases. If you’re ever on the fence to be tattooed by someone who’s new, I say give it a shot! But if you’re gonna do it, just make sure that you’re with someone who makes you feel comfortable, and really cares about what they’re putting on your body. If you’ve had a tattoo before, you know what I mean, and if you’re getting a new one in Chicago, check out Trans and Queer artists! I know Ari is one of a few great ones. Peace. @!^-216

[twocpoetry]

The Company You Keep: a Poem for my Family

When the company you keep wants to kill me, Cause people like me are bundles of twigs, Fit only for fire, I stop responding to messages. I never know if you opening your mouth will sound like them. Never know if them being real niggas means I'm just a nigga, But never a real nigga, just a bitch nigga who needs taught a lesson with blood as my ink, Labeling me only incorrect. When the company you keep wants to kill me, I don't accept your friend request online. The friends you already have consider me threat, And you consider them first amendment warriors, Incapable of grasping the term collateral damage, Simply being free to use words that feel like prison bars, Trapping me inside toxicity until I am no longer breathing. Spending more time defending the use of the words faggot and Dyke, Than telling people to stop using words that make the target marker on my body bigger. When the company you keep wants to kill me, I struggle to trust your promises of protection. It is not feasible to believe you'd protect me from violence in person, When the man who tells me I deserve to be slapped with a bullet, Reminds of your bestie. Reminds me of the time they shared that murderous intent all over the Internet. Bodies like mine only viral post mortem, And you literally "like" every single moment of it. When the company you keep wants to kill me, I don't visit when you visit, I don't pick up when you call, Too scared you'll feel like them, Sound like them, Too scared you have become them. When the company you keep wants to kill me..... I don't keep you company.

[twocpoetry]

Re: the before and after memes that portray a cis person as another gender in adulthood. (The one I've seen lately is the Christmas Story one, where Ralphie is the before picture, and Amy Schumer is the after. The actor who played Ralphie still identifies as cis, and so does Amy to my knowledge). If you're sharing any post where a cis person is now being looked at as an adult gender they don't identify, you are participating in Transphobia. How you may ask? If your after picture isn't how this person identifies, then you are taking the idea of transitioning, and turning it into a punchline. A trans person is not just their old gender wrapped in new clothes and makeup (should they decide to wear it). It's an evolution, a morphing into a new sense of self. To play that off as the butt of a joke, contributes to a very violent culture that continues to get many of us attacked and killed. So if you're sharing posts like this, please understand that it's a part of an incredibly dangerous and insensitive problem. Stop it. "I did then what I knew how to do. Now that I know better, I do better." - Maya Angelou

[twocpoetry]

Learning to Love My Ugly: a Tattoo Story

Anyone who knows me, knows that body modification (tattoos, piercings, etc.) is something that I consider very important to my expression of self, and the idea of a statement. Yeah, that’s clichè, but some people really mean that shit, and I’m one of them. Tattoos are an expression of my life, in regards to it’s challenges, successes, failures, and even losses. I think of them very much like I do my poetry, fluid, and in sync with my life as it moves; an artistic scrapbook of sorts. The time had finally come for me to tell another story. New tattoo time! W00T!

I already knew what I wanted, and I had been thinking about this tattoo for at least a month. Memory’s as fuzzy as a kitten lately, so take that with a grain of salt. The tattoo design came from an AJJ song lyric:

“If my ugly had a shape, it’d be a spiral, Moving forward as it spins around.”

from No More Shame, No More Fear, No More Dread.

To design would be fairly simple: a spiral with the word “Ugly” in the center. Seemed straightforward to me the day I went in there. My tattoo artist…. Was slightly confused.

Well, to say he was confused was an understatement to say the least. He was downright disturbed. Multiple times he asked me why’d I want something like that on my hand. He tried to talk me out of it a couple times. He’d remind me that it was permanent, and apparently he even felt the need to talk it over with his buds, so he could even feel comfortable doing it.

To him, and to everyone he talked to, it was a move of desperation, a cry for help, a sign that my life was fucked. What I kept trying to tell him, was that this tattoo was all of those things, and that was exactly the point.

In a lot of ways, it’s becoming important to learn acceptance and understanding of my ugly, of my dark, of my numb, my impulsiveness for self harm, and other extremes of my mental and emotional state. If this part of my life has taught me anything, it’s that my issues are more likely to become trickier and harder to control, even with my awareness of them. So for myself, and for others like me, instead of trying to find a way to push our issues down, we’re weathering them. We’re writing lyrics, poems, prose, and even getting our ugly tattooed on our body.

For me, the reality that my mental disability is going to involve itself very heavily in my life, means that I have to be aware of almost every moment I use energy, cause one wrong move can put me down for the entirety of a day of pre-planned activities, no matter how much I tried to be ready.

This is not pretty. This is not happy go lucky, life is wonderful. This is fucking hard. This is work to be able to get myself out of bed just to eat, and then still only make it halfway. This is deciding if you’ll walk past traffic this time, or into it. It’s messy, sloppy, angry and sometimes life-ending ugly. For at least some of us, it was just easier to accept that. I could save the energy I spent trying to care about where people thought I was in my journey, and I could put it into people who depend on me and care about me. Seems like a better use of a spoon.

My acceptance of my ugly parts of me, the parts that are hard to manage and deal with, is actually keeping me going a lot longer than the false hopes of conforming to a society that doesn’t even want us. So if the first thing someone sees when they look at my hands is an artistic expression of that for the rest of my life, then so be it.  It’s not like it would be any less real of a twisted situation without some really dope ass proof, huh?

To all my complicated, and messy, and hard to read, and hard to understand people, know that you don’t owe pretty life to no one. We’re all handling this at our own speeds, each in our individually valid and important truths. So fuck cookie cutter. We’re not meant for it anyways. Do you, even it don’t make anyone else smile, but you. I witness you, I love you, and I lift you. - Vita E.

[twocpoetry]

Hear Yourself Speak

Hear yourself speak, Do you notice its stagger across you tongue? Do you witness it stumble out of your mouth in the form of Dis-so-ciative stut-ter? Your sleight of hand animations, So fast no one can track you and your mile a minute mind-PAUSE!

You’re doing it again. As if your existence is a one-sided argument, Between you….|and |…..the wall. And you’re both winning. To live out loud for you is a literal statement nowadays. You have lost your ability to move in doses, Your mouth is now IV of self conscious behavior on an overloaded loop, The rhetorical questions you ask, not out of actual rhetoric, But more a result of the breath you are not taking for the answer-PAUSE!

This is your reminder to breathe, Breathe to stop the headaches, Breath swallow the word vomit down the wrong pipe again. You mental illness is always anchor sinking bottom-side, And optimism is always out of oxygen, Sinkin’, Submerged, Subterranean, Sub par, always under the bar-PAUSE!

This is your reminder to breathe.

PAUSE!

This is your reminder to breathe!

PAUSE!

GOD DAMNIT! *inhales*

Hear yourself speak. (inhales) Know that you are real.(inhales) Feel your lungs as evidence. (inhales) Feel your heart as testimony. (inhales) You have time. (inhales) You still have time left to use your voice. (inhales) Pause.

This is your reminder to breathe. 

[twocpoetry]

Why I’ve Stopped Using the Hashtag, “#TransIsBeautiful”

As a Black Trans Woman, I was in love with the idea of the Laverne Cox hashtag, #TransIsBeautiful. I mean, how could I not be? This coming from one of the people who saved my life at a conference almost two years ago, and it was for us! LIT!

So why don’t I use it anymore? Why give it away to others who may not grasp or appreciate it? Why push that part of me somewhere else? The reason for that, is because I find the hashtag to now be a means for privileged people in the community to once again overshadow marginalized Trans Folks.

Now take a minute to process what I am about to say next. Maybe this analogy will help. Take the #AllLivesMatter hashtag for example. People should know that the reason movements like BLM got started, was because so-called obvious statements like this weren’t being practiced.

Those who started BLM were very well aware that all of our lives do matter, but all of them were not being cared for and respected in the same way. This is why the hashtag, #AllLivesMatter misses the point (a few of them actually), because it invalidates the oppression that certain intersections of people face on a daily basis.

Now I know what you’re thinking: “Vita, what the fuck does this have to do with the hashtag, #TransIsBeautiful?” In one word: representation. The people you witness in the general frame of this hashtag now, tend to be cis-passing, and white passing. Funny for yet another thing created by a Black person to be overshadowed by white people (*sip*).

Unfortunately, as the phrase became more mainstream, more people took it as another way to overshadow those who aren’t: Trans folk that don’t pass, non-binary people (still), marginalized intersections related (Disabled, Fat, Black, Brown Trans people, etc.).

The representation has once again been centered around cisgender passing white folks, who exist away from the forms of disrespect other Trans people face. In my particular life as a Black Trans Woman, the violence that we face is never met with anger, vigor, or what even appears to be the slightest bit of empathy, even from “mainstream” (white, cis-passing) Trans people. We are not represented, we are not protected, we are not counted unless it’s a body count. Nothing beautiful about that.

As a non-binary person, I know too often that our version of Transness isn’t even considered REAL by our own people, let alone beautiful. We’re always being told to make a decision, that getting procedures to make us more digestible is the solution to the problem. We are not counted, we are not represented. We are considered the passing phase of a teenage mind who’s trying on a new outfit for the first time, not permanent, soon to conform. Nothing beautiful about that, either.

#TransIsBeautiful is no longer for me. It no longer sheds light on where I come from, cause it’s been bought out so strongly. So instead, I simply use the hashtags: #BlackTransLives, #NonbinaryPride, and #NeuroDivergentTales. These are the parts of my life that make up the most of me at times where I’m the most still, the least busy, the happiest, and the the worst off emotionally. I know my Transness is a beauty to behold, as it is with other Trans people I continue to encounter on my journey through life. But as Toni Morrison says:  

“If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.”

Peace, Vita E.

[twocpoetry]

Many thanks to @voicemailpoems for giving my poetry a home on their platform. Hope y’all enjoy my piece, “Black Tears.” Peace, Vita E. 

“Black Tears” by Vita E.

I used to joke about white tears, The ones that my melinated friends collected in candles, teacups, And vials around their necks to ironically season their food with. It took me a while to understand the desire to collect a memory of someone’s complaints, About a form of racism that does not, has not, and likely will not ever exist.

Recently my understanding of this tactic rings like a thousand rednecks at a Trump rally. I understand now that collecting white tears is a form of reparation. A return on the imposed investment on the bones of my ancestors. Trails of Black tears that pollinated cotton fields, That complimented the salt of oceans and sweat of slaves, That created the taste of bitterness that would last for centuries, Leaking out of the souls of Black victims of modern day lynching captured in high definition. These tears mixed with the blood of my native brethren, That had already been spilled to make room for white bodies, Too full of their own egos to share the land. These tears have been collected as pennies in comparison to the lives that were traded as cattle for profit. Profit that now holds residence inside of old paper. Generations of making a living off their ancestor’s hatred for my skin tone. They carry Black tears in their Sierra Leone diamond necklaces, They record them as they fall into another clip of poverty porn for organizations to make money off our pain. They convert them into the soles of shoes made by children’s hands. They’ve turned Black tears into gunpowder to mix with Black bodies, Spread out over black tar streets that Black and Brown hands built. Soon to be buried in Black Coffins, while their memories are polluted like the black oil they’ve spilled in blue waters, Waters that have their own stock of Black skeletons.

So yes, now I do understand. I understand what it’s like to take less than a tenth back, Of the parts of you that you will literally never know without a blood test, Parts of you that may exist at the bottom of beaches, Inside articles of clothing, And at the base of white folks fantasies. I understand what it means to taste a bit of payback in food they could never cook like us. To hold a drop of their discomfort in our hands, To feel it in our mouths as nourishment, To return the favor that we never asked for all those years ago. White tears are a portion of debt owed to Black people, And I now take them willingly into my chest, Dye them obsidian, and write my poems with them.

————————————–

Vita E. called us from Chicago, IL. More about Vita E..

voicemailpoems.org // 1-910-703-POEM

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[twocpoetry]

Three Fictional Characters

Facebook’s doing a thing. THREE FICTIONAL CHARACTERS! Cartoon, live action, movie, Martyr, Matron, Patron, etc.,

So I decided to just play myself. Someone hard to believe as real. Someone drawn out as a cartoon character, Dead name tattooed on my forehead, Mustache and breasts as a punchline. Target marker on my chest the shape of heartbeat. Hairy legs, a sign I’m not trying because of what’s in-between them. A drawing of myself and others like me, Held up above the eyes of people, Fastened to their faces with duct tape doused in super glue, To ensure, that no matter what I do, they’ll always see me this way.

I noticed that the game prompts more personality besides my own, So I will also add my sisters. The corpses that don’t break windows, The bodies that don’t burn buildings. The memories that are mostly just reasons they weren’t real either. At least not real enough to kill for. Not real enough to make waves in an ocean of blood. Mannequins soaked in red for the sake of a point to prove. Too much man to be woman, too much woman to be respected, A product of unrealistic expectation that states, “You’re only you, if you can be the best version of us, And even then, your hourglass figure remains an omen for how long you’re allowed to live.”

I know they only say I can pick two. I’m supposed to be able to choose which ones deserve to be witnessed. How I wish, that it were as easy for me to do, as it is for other people. The inventory is so high, and so much like me, That I can’t put my finger on the one that gets to exist. I mean, how can I? I am merely a mannequin poet, Crafting art with invisible pain and imaginary grief. Making more paint inside my body, To show the world everything I am not, Everything we are not, and will never be.

So Facebook’s doing a thing. Three Fictional Characters, And I wonder, If I’m playing myself, Will anyone even notice I did?

[twocpoetry]

Day of Peace

On the International Day of Peace, I woke up once again, To a Black Person’s meeting with a paradox. A city on fire, A Black man slaughtered for taking the time to learn, While waiting on his son to get back from doing the same thing. This can only confirm a well known testament of society, That Black people are most dangerous when our minds are open, So they closed the chapter on his pulse, And left the blood to rewrite a little’s boy history, With his father as en eventual omission. This occurs only after a day that took another man, Guilty of the crime of having a broken down vehicle, And raised up hands.

On the International Day of Peace, We are seeing absence of awareness, Not only for victims that look like us Dying from those who don’t, But victims that look like us, Dying from those who do. “Ey Mama come here” turns into, “Here lies the grave of.” So funny how fireproof a city is, When a Black femme’s death sparks nothing short of reasons she deserved it. The list continues and continues and cont………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… …….inues until finally, Another murder gives that conversation pause, Another more important murder, Another murder that was worth reporting, One that wasn’t just a man pretending, (T.T) Or a stuck up bitch who said no, (Jessica Hampton) Or the one on the West Side of Cleveland, Or the one on the West Side of Chicago, Or the one in Baltimore. Maybe the rain’s just too strong on those days.

On the International Day of Peace, Pipelines move through burial grounds, Drop nukes the shape of oils cans into the ecosystem. Dogs make scars that will last forever, Into those who would only see them as family, Controlled by pale hands, That move oppression against nature through nature. To steal more land they promised they wouldn’t. While we wear their trauma and stolen culture in our cars as air fresheners. “Have you seen my new dreamcatcher?” Oh what tribe you from? “Uh….. Target?”

On the International Day of Peace, We witness the U.S. government’s practices of terrorism, Under the guise that Brown people are terrorists, Mosques, as flammable as Black Trans Women wish the city would be. Because one man’s hatred for Latinx folks he’d rather fuck than keep alive, Meant his whole faith had to pay. Meant that everyone who actually loved with their faith, Instead of killing with a mockery of it, Were solely responsible for its guilt by association. Red White and Red White and Red White and Red, With just a hint of a pledge to a white God, that Roman crusaders killed for.

On the International Day of Peace, I witness cultural casualty once again being committed on screen. White bodies playing roles they have no business in. Cis bodies playing roles they have no business in. Clashes of hashtags bounce around a room of pixels in the shape of gaslights. Until we are even questioning the validity of our own existence. We see ourselves expressed as punchlines transforming into bullet wounds. We see our history sold for the sake of relevance, Sewn into a poorly made T-Shirt, or moldy hairstyle. Our spirits looking for homes in the languages that were beaten out of our lineages, In moments where have to spend money to know where came from, Buying it back from the people who robbed us for it at gunpoint.

On the International Day of Peace, I stopped writing this poem, Not because I wanted to, Not because there wasn’t more to say, But because my heart won’t hold the pen anymore….

[twocpoetry]

Shadow Clone

I have died more than 10 times a year for the past few years,

An expert at waving hand signs, shaped like fists,

That split into multiple beings spread across continents.

I have felt flames upon body,

Bullets hot upon skin,

Blunt object on flesh,

As blunt as the stares,

As blunt as the battle scars that other mes create by perishing,

And transferring trauma into my spirit,

You see, I, she, we, are shadow clones.

Made of similar stigmas that make us not quite real,

And not quite alive.

Our pronouns don't exist,

Our magic never strong enough when separate,

Our tongues never sharper than their shuriken style smiles that laugh as our bodies bleed.

My parts are manufactured by the same world that wants me, her, us, removed,

Classified as another mistake,

A jutsu done wrong,

As if we are nothing more than an example of what not to do,

Not to wear,

Not to say,

Not to be.

And so,

When my body returns from its spell of duplication,

It seems that there are always pieces of me missing,

Shadow clones that didn't make it home,

That didn't return from parties and night clubs,

Nights shifts and street corners,

Horror films that always have us dying before our cisgender shinobi brethren,

Yanked from the script, as our chakra is yanked from our bodies.

To our brothers,

We exist merely as chimera,

Abominations to the universe we created with our very energies,

And so,

They have begun to wave fingers into signs that turn our beings into blood bent corrections,

Of people that were never problems to begin with.

Some where in the world,

There are shells of me,

Lying in coffin shaped doll boxes,

Too pretty to open again,

Or at least, to bound for a reanimation spell to take affect.

What I'd give to break the seal,

And see my pieces return to me.

Not as ghosts, but goddesses,

Not as phantoms, but factual divinity.

But I, she, we, are merely shadow clones,

Figments of fantasy,

Cartoon character collateral damage,

Fading into each other,

But never returning home.

[twocpoetry]

How to Manage the Need For Silence, When It’s Been Used to Abuse You

TW: abuse, mostly emotional, but physical in spots. I don’t know what this will do for people, but I want to offer a take on the idea that “silence is golden.” For some of us, this is not always, or ever the case.

So this week I faced a massive panic attack, one that gives me something called a hemiplegic migraine. The symptoms of what they call an “aura” are very consistent with what a person would deal with when experiencing a stroke: Nausea, headaches, numbness and weakness in the body, and difficulty vocalizing. This has resulted in the need to speak less, and I’ve developed some tactics to manage this:

Music

Tapping rhythms of words on my chest

Breathing exercises.

The hardest and most relevant to the subject: Silence. Pure silence.

The benefits of silence is that the world become a world again, ya know? I’ve witnessed outside very fluently since then. Hearing the wind, the water on the beach only blocks away, all of that. But with it, comes the reality of what I’ve experienced: abusive silence as a means to control me.

I’ve had many partners and lovers do this, even as recently as this year. It usually follows a very similar format: I do something my lover did not like, an explosion of some sort follows. This has either been a fight, a moment of being yelled at consistently while I sit silent and obey, or a partner actually physically assaulting me in public, which put me in my place. After all of these moments, a lover would either leave, usually by car, or stay in front of me and refuse to speak to me at all. It would always be crushing.

After every hand I felt, every word I experienced, every injustice I was dealt, I found myself with all of these feelings, none of which were welcome. So I did what I felt I was supposed to do. I kept them to myself. The unfortunate part would ironically come, not with the consequences of my silence, but the benefits of it. Partners would come home, or come find me, smile, laugh, lay with me intimately, and all would be great again, at least for them. For me, it was a nightmare. My partners found peace in my pain, pain I couldn’t talk about. I processed this as: “They’re so happy! How could I possibly ruin their happiness, by telling them how much they have hurt me?” So I didn’t.

But it would come out, and it would only come out inside of me. It came out in my shaking. It came out in my hatred for myself. It came out in my drinking, my cigarettes, my overall Stockholm Syndrome to my partners’ happiness. The panic attacks came, and they worsened, and worsened. I began to lose sleep, which contributes now to my ever pervasive insomnia, which led to more drinking to sleep myself through moments where I could actually hear myself think my own thoughts.

As I find myself having these headaches on and off, the idea having to speak less, and rely on more means of nonverbal communication is not only frustrating from a practical angle, but it only serves to induce further fear and rationalization that my silence is destined, that I am only meant to be someone who is seen and not heard. While I understand this as a thought that many don’t agree with, I offer this statement for people who are much like me.

For someone like myself, silence is literally violence, and while I’ve learned a very mandatory control over the pace of my thoughts, as we all could stand to do sometimes, I want others like me to know it’s ok. It’s ok to not always be able to handle the quiet, to need background noise, or at least some semblance of that, even in a room where you’re the only one who does. This pain is real, and even though it’s not often thought about, it’s something that needs validated, and so, is validated here. That being said, at some point, it helps to know that just because people aren’t always responding, doesn’t mean they don’t care. It will be important to know that as your life continues to be a lesson in unpacking abuse. 

If you are someone who experiences a person who does not do silence well, a word of advice: different is not bad, it is simply different. It’s important for you to have the space you need, so hopefully you don’t feel the pressure to respond all the time. But the best thing to do is let people find the balance they need, and understand the back story behind a very complicated form of trauma that is in more people than is probably discussed.

On both sides, patience, time, and no pun intended, communication, is super important when being involved with each other, either intimately or otherwise. Be aware of how you hold and take space, and it’s totally possible for growth and healing to happen in this way. Peace.

[twocpoetry]

People I Felt on The Walk Home

I challenged my friend, That if I got 5 awkward stares on the walk home from his house, I’d tell him about it. …..There were at least 10. But these are the ones I remember.

8.  You were visibly angry with what you witnessed, And because of this, I am as afraid of you as the consequences of 5’s gaze. Please don’t kill me, I’m almost home, and this poem is not written yet.

7.  You started at my feet, Then moved all the way up my existence in front of you. Became uninterested, and then continued your delivery. I hope they tip you well.

6.  I love your head wrap, Sorry you didn’t like my dress, Cause I was hoping that we could have that moment together as Black women. Anyway, enjoy the food. I’ve never eaten there but I hear it’s good.

5.  You looked at me the way 2 did, but for a different reason. Maybe you don’t know this, But I live in this neighborhood, and I mean you no harm by existing. Please don’t call the police. I want to die today, but not by their hands, And I swore to my friends I’d try to stay alive this month.

4. You are the aesthetic opposite of 2. 2 femmes walking side by side and smiling at each other, You’re giving off major stud vibes and I dig it. Sorry you felt you had to grab her hand because I walked by. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just thought you were cool.

3.  You were with who I assume was your family, Enjoying a lollipop, rocking back and forth, and being comforted. My body confuses you. This is something about my body we share.

2.  You and stereotypical white cisgender gay boyfriend. Ripped muscles, rainbow tank top and an overcompensating haircut. I don’t want your man. If I did, you wouldn’t have walked home with him.

1. You told me dress was pretty. You were the only who looked at me this way. Thank you.

[twocpoetry]

No Place Like Home I tremble in my sleep, Pain, restlessness on overflow, I snap awake to the beating of my heart And the alarm in my throat rings out.... They have not said her name, They have not said her name, They have not said her name, She, who exists as a warning shot to my visit back. She, who is beautiful, A star yanked from the cosmos, As a sign that only certain stars can be beautiful in the night, Before they explode into nothing, She, who lived and died down the block from my old home, She who makes me wonder if my friends will hear about her, Call her a he, And laugh about her death the way I've seen them laugh at my sisters as they walk the streets, Do they know that laughter is poison, Disguised as a sense of humor? Do they know that she was human long before she was funny? Do they know that the enjoyment of her pain in life is what killed her? That the truth of her life is already being erased, Whittled gown to genitals and a dead name, And placed upon a body count that no one seems to notice, But the potential future victims. Down the street from where I used to live, A goddess stolen. Down the street from where I used to live, A name not spoken, Down the street from where I used to live, A grave created out of hatred and apathy, A shovel made with bare hands that may have held her before they killed her. I think of this, as I plan my trip back to the city, And now, I question my reunion with my area code, Too afraid that reunion will become another crime scene. Too afraid that they will whittle another of us down to genitals and a dead name, To match the body, not valued enough to keep alive, Down the street from where I used to live. They buried a woman like me. Down the street from where I used to live. They may bury another soon.

[twocpoetry]

As of today, my Patreon is officially launched! Be sure to stop by and get yourself some love!

[twocpoetry]

I Can’t Tell You

I can’t tell you what it means, To know that I can never plant flowers in the hearts of people, Fast enough to watch them grow into ones I place on graves. I am not prepared to give another eulogy, Because I have not had time to finish writing the others.

I can’t tell you what it means, To know that getting older is a luxury for us. I count the days like breaths in a tank of oxygen run low. I read the headlines like I never stopped. Like there was never a break between bodies, Because there never was.

I can’t tell you what it means, To look at my poetry of recently and see nothing but obituaries, Cries for help muffle themselves into computer keys, Lamentations find their way into lyrics of the same song, One I’ll never be able to stop writing, Because we never seem to stop being murdered. The same blood-soaked melody leaking into my vocal cords, And then pouring out of me like a familiar friend you can’t block.

I can’t tell you what it means, To know that I’ll write this poem again someday. Probably someday soon. I’ll drink the blood of my people, Regurgitate it onto a piece of paper, Only to never perform it because the heart can’t take as much death as the hands can. My eyes looking for words in the back of my mind, Because my fingers can’t stop burying people like me.

I carry Black ink in them like soil, I hold bodies like syllables, I scream their names, and no words ever leave my mouth. A mouth wide open, that has so much to say, But can’t tell you anything new. Can’t tell you anything you haven’t heard before. Can’t tell you anything that doesn’t sound the same. Stop killing us on repeat, The broken record that no one ever takes home. The song that no one sings when a Black Trans Body wrote the lyrics. A melody, invisible, even post mortem.

I can’t tell you what it means, Because I’ve already told you. And it hasn’t meant anything, No matter how many times, or ways, it’s already been said.

[twocpoetry]

Celibacy, Day 7

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

I want to masturbate. I want to masturbate.

That’s not all that happened today. A dissociative breakdown and check out has been overwhelming, and with nothing to smoke, and no confidence in my ability to drink, there’s nothing going on in my life that’s giving me any release. What does it mean? It means I need to work out what it means to have my body be something I can interact with, without needing someone else involved. I’m also super fuckin lonely about this, and I need to find something to center me in this solitude. I realized today that I can’t handle certain things anymore, and I owe that perspective to my loved ones. I can give myself that perspective at some point, maybe I can actually have some time to make myself feel good. Or is that the problem? Am I unable to make myself feel good without that? I guess I’m still learning that answer. WOOF! Only a week.