Life is not so difficult to grasp
just because my mind and body
are writing death threats across my veins like
If you don’t hurry up already
and fix what you grew
crooked and broken
I will eat you alive
and you’ll never see it coming
because the first thing I’ll go for
is your eyes.
Love, Your Mind.
You make it hard to work with this constant wave
of devout identity interception.
You’ve got so many walls
Fort Knox looks like a sand castle.
Tell me: what
are you so afraid of?
Begrudgingly, Your Body.
You see, I wake up in the morning
look in the mirror,
and hate what I see.
According to Einstein
I must be crazy
for suddenly expecting something to look different
the only things that ever change
are the growing number of freckles
to count out my disappointments,
one miscommunication at a time.
I look in the mirror,
groggy eyed, half blind
and don’t hate what I see.
So, I go to make coffee because I’m a transguy
and we drink massive amounts of caffeine.
I kill the coffee maker and end up
dumping 12 cups of water
all over the carpet
before being reminded
Mercury is in Retrograde.
I should’ve stayed in bed today.
I should not have tried to make coffee
but I need my coffee to live!
I walk to work worrying about small holes and imperfections
ready to flip my ankle out
foot in, sprawled along the crosswalk
in the middle of a busy intersection.
I should’ve stayed in bed today.
I get to work, get called miss, ma’am,
sweetie, sir, cunt, and man.
Sometimes all in the same call
and people think I’m fucked up.
Well, I mean, I am, but
at least I’m not
feeling my way through an identity crisis
projected onto someone else.
People do not understand trans*
it is such a vast term
and people like neat packaging
pretty paper, an easy explanation
as to why someone is “wrong.”
The easy explanation is:
most people aren’t taught about diversity
at least, not really.
Only with a little well worn, maladjusted history
does race even come up.
There aren’t enough of us in history.
There aren’t enough of us staring
down the face of the world saying
“I only want to be me.”
And by me, I do not mean
macho asshole type.
I do not mean
I will keep a mental checklist
while walking down the street about
head up and looking forward—check
taking up as much space as possible—check
not moving to let others by—check.
There are many more ways to
“act like a male”
but I don’t need to act like anything
to be the boy I’ve always been.
I never needed a scout handbook
to know how to build a fire,
do you hear me?
Life is not so different for me
it’s dysfunctional just like everyone else’s
and I deal with it as appropriately
as I see how, sometimes
with kid gloves and butterfly stitches
with pliers and “bite into this”s.
I am not perfect, but human-
Therefore, please treat me like a person
not an object
not the subject of your psychology paper
like I remember you from high school.
Don’t you dare pretend we were ever friends
so you can put me in a cage
and get the easy A.
I don’t have to tell you how I fuck
or who I love,
what I do for a living
or what my “real name” is.
My real name is the name I give
otherwise wouldn’t everything
coming out of my mouth
be a lie?
you child to gender diversity,
I am not talking down to you
I am saying hear me.
I killed my coffee maker
and get to blame Mercury’s Retrograde.
I shaved my face
then put cologne on
I go to work.
I come home to my Husband.
Am I really so different
that people are willing to ignore
entire generations of us?
we don’t ask for much
just proper grammar and
someone to love.
Nikolaas Mirage is a disabled kinky queer transguy who was born and raised in Maine, but currently resides in Las Vegas, Nevada. Nikolaas is a slam poet, has been writing and performing for 10 years, and likes glitter and vibrant things. Favorite words are akimbo and yawp.
This issue of Chelsea Station was co-edited by
Mitch Kellaway, AJ Sass, and Noah Grabeel.