My ears are ringing as I pull the keys to my door from my pocket.

I hear nothing,

I hear everything.

I slow down and feel the world's weight.

I wish life could be easier,

I wish I had something to relate this experience to.

Because I cannot, it must be death because that's the only thing I will never truly feel.

I wish I was sober, yet I feel so alive.

So often we overlook some of the very best people, and let me tell you this Queen is amazing. I won't share her name or true detail to her story, but what I will share is that she has a heart made of gold. Seldom to people realize it because when they look at her they cower. They avert their stares. They cross the street. The mumble under their breath about how people like her should cease to breathe or how they need to figure themselves out. Well this might be news to the world, but coming out doesn't mean we deal with your emotions over the situation. It means you are privileged enough to hear our stories. It will be a privilege for you to hear a fraction of hers.

The people that know her say she wears her smile like the sun as it sets. People were always waiting for it to show, and when it did it was the most beautiful smile you would see. Her style was ever changing as she went from trend to trend, but you barely saw her with her clothes on. No one knew what she was going through. Her family didn't even care. She was on her own and had been for a time. It took her years to feel like she could be herself. Burlesque was just a part of that-- becoming herself.

Each night she brought home stacks of ones. Her size twelve heels were kicked behind the door and her wig lay on her boudoir waiting to be brushed for the next evening. She stepped into the shower and turned the temperature as hot as she could bear it; torn panty hose lay outside the tub and makeup ran down her face. The night began to drain from her body. She filled the tub and the water sat up to her breast. She looked down at them, uneven pecks. She began lathering soap on her arms, chest, legs and then the space between her thighs. Her penis lay limp with no feeling. How she longed to feel whole. She wished for the chance to become the woman she wants to be. She thinks about how she doesn't need to change, but maybe if she did it would make her feel more complete. Maybe it will or maybe she will feel exactly as she does now.

Her name isn't as important as her story. Sometimes people want their privacy. After all she says, "I only represents one person in a vast community, but my experience might be relatable to some." She told me how she longs to share her story, but she cannot find the words. It is hard to be courageous right now, especially in this world. She gives and she gives, but seldom receives. Growing up she saw doctors and was told it was a phase and later on a disease. Labeled as mental, this woman had issues with gender. She was beaten by family and peers all in the hopes the title queer would leave her. She wrote down every name she was called in a leather bound book and in order to forget she drank a handle and swallowed a bottle of pills; however, nothing worked. When she found herself out of that place and on her way to a higher education she pretended to be the perfect man. She dressed simply and wore her hair clean cut. She went on dates and even made love to the women she compared herself to.

Her unhappiness was registered by a very close friend. She broke. She cried and she finally came to terms with the woman she is and her friend held her close and just said, "I love you. I hope you know this." It was that day he (himself) died and she (herself) truly began to live. Beaten with unkind words and sometimes physical violence she longed for something to change. She slept with a different man often, trying to feed her appetite. She often thought that it would take the pain away. To be loved over and over and by many, but quickly realized that she was just used for her celebrity and for her identity. Tired of being fetishized, she longed to settle down, but it's hard to find the one when every man acts like a boy and they forget she once pretended to be one.

Sometimes feeling alone she reaches down between her legs. What a foreign place for a woman. She remembers when she felt something there, a tingling sensation perhaps. She wished she could fit the mold of society, but also wishes that she could just simply be. What will it take for people to accept her? How many like her have to die before people realize they are human? Will she every see equality? She says these are the questions that keep her up at night. She thinks aloud how it could have been her at Orlando. Or how she could have been shot on the street. How people just don't understand what it's like to be looked down upon by every single person you meet.

She works too damn hard to be living like this. To be treated as inferior-- like society's secret mistress. A lot of people forget how Trans* began a revolution. How LGBTQ+ got it's foot in the door. How a lot of it started in underground clubs. Divas voguing, dressing in drag, and flaunting their colors with PRIDE. It's sad that individuals like this QUEEN have to put the show away and hide. Everyone just wants to be accepted. Everyone wants the same equal rights. So why did this Queen have to live such a hard life?

I'll tell you she's happy now and very secure in herself. Don't treat her with disrespect. Don't curse, and don't yell. Look at her in her eyes and know she is so proud to be a woman. She is strong. She is courageous. And she is not afraid of staying true to herself, but it took her a long time to get there-- to look down at her penis and then in the mirror, to look into her own eyes, to give self love, and to heal.

This story doesn't seem very R- rated, but yet I'd argue it is because what we lack in sex, language, and violence you've already come up with in your head. This story is poorly written only because it is a second hand account, but if you heard it from her you wouldn't be able to close your mouth. Don't forget about the violence in the Trans* community during this month of PRIDE. This is an every day occurrence and they all need allies on their side.

Sincerely, a lesbian and king writing about a Queen who works at night

Day 1

My name is Wren and I don't like writing, but I decided I needed a place to jot my thoughts down. My parents and doctor said this would be good for me in the long run. After all a guy who is friendless needs something to do/talk to. This isn't a diary.

                                                                                                                   -Wren

Day 1

My name is Greyson and I am starting a journal because I just moved to a new town. My last school wasn't a good fit. I don't remember much from my time there anyway. I have short hair and get teased a lot. That's okay it won't matter much longer anyway. I have no friends, but maybe that will change at school. I looked out the window and a boy was in the yard next door. He is taller than me. Dark hair falls past his left eye, but otherwise it's clean cut. His eyes look green--maybe blue. I cannot tell. Maybe he and I can be friends. Well, time to unpack and eat dinner.

Day 2

Wren here again. I never know how to write greetings. I saw a girl or maybe younger boy looking out the neighbors upstairs window. Mom says I should introduce myself. I don't really want to. What;s the point when you don't have much time? Pop says I need a haircut, but I don't want to do that either. Maybe if I go over then they will leave me alone about my hair. 

                                                                         -The guy who needs a haircut but refuses

Day 2

So the boy next door came by and said his name is Wren. He awkwardly told me at first that he thought I might be a boy (how typical). We both are the same age and actually attend the same high school (15 if you care). He doesn't seem to have a friend group so maybe I'm in luck. Not very many people want to be my friend or get close to me. It kind of sucks. I wouldn't tell him that though. Mom and dad are fighting again and per usual it's about me.

Day 3

So, Greyson is a girl. She is actually kind of cute and will be in some of my classes. She doesn't have a friend group yet, so maybe she'll hang out with me. She was pretty cool, but seemed to have a lot going on. We made plans, but her parents were kind of in the middle of something for us to really finalize. She said we'd talk later.

                                                                                                   -Couldn't seal the deal

Day 3

Wren asked me to hang out, he's the boy next door. We didn't actually say when and where-- that's a good sign right? Right?! I think he is really nice, but I'm just hoping that he won't look at me different after he truly gets to know me. Mom looked at me and cried after asking me a question. I guess she didn't like the answer? I told her I was going to go see Wren tomorrow afternoon.

Day 4

Oh, wow. Greyson and I finally hung out and she kind of freaked me out with starting off by saying, "I hope this doesn't make you think any different of me, but I had brain cancer (now in remission), but have been diagnosed with early onset alzheimer's." I had no idea what to say so she just kept talking about how she writes in her journal and reads it every day. She is sad that some days are more detailed than others, but she doesn't want me to think she will forget. She said if I didn't want to be friends with her then that was okay. I stood there like a dumbfounded idiot and let her talk and talk until she walked away. I guess I just didn't know how to tell her that I only have 7 months and two days to live. It seems like we are in a damn chick flick. Two tragedies destined to be tragic. You deserve better... Greyson deserved better.

Day 4

I came home crying and all I can remember is that it was because that stupid boy, Wren. I know I told him about me, but he just looked at me like I was a freak. I knew it was too good to be true to finally have a friend-- for someone to see me as just someone too. I tried. Mom and dad are getting frustrated with me or maybe with each other. I just hear my name a lot and how they don't know what to do with me. I'm starting to get tired of reading every day what I did the day before and looking at pictures of people I don't know. Mom said a few of them were me. How can I not recognize myself? Partially because one of them was a damned ultrasound picture. The other one was before they removed the tumor in my brain. The cancerous lump of destruction. I hope I can get over this and at least enjoy the first day of school.

Day 5

I walked with Greyson to school this morning and I started to tell her that I wasn't going to live for very long. I told her about my kidneys failing and how I didn't have a match yet. I told her about how I was so far down the list that I probably wouldn't see another kidney. She looked at me and said, "That sucks, I'm sorry." I smiled. Me too. We walked in silence. The principal greeted us and told us about our schedules. We had all the same classes. I was to help Greyson with her work. That works for me.

It seemed like days until the last bell rang. Greyson looked around confused and asked me if I had seen her parents. I told her no but that I could walk her home to them. She told me all about her day and the school she had attended before. Later she looked at me and asked, Wren? I started to be confused too. I guess she forgot me for a minute. Her eyes seemed to have this glazed look before she asked my name. Almost like she was lost in a different world, but the question snapped her voice and eyes back to reality. The feeling I got in my chest had me all messed up. I was in knots. I wonder if this is what her parents feel every day.

Day 5

I went to school with Wren. I had to ask mom what his name was again. He has every class with me and even walked me home. I was talking to him and he had a confused look on his face. He looked like he may be having chest pains or maybe a headache. I felt bad. We talked until I got home. I told him I would see him tomorrow.

He told me that he writes in a journal too and maybe we could let the other read sometime. He said maybe it will help me remember a little more since my entries fluctuate in size. I sort of agreed, but maybe I should change some of what I said before... I think I called him cute.

To be continued...

                                   Listening

              Peaceful, silent

                                    Chest rising, falling

Ears perched and unmoving

                                          The cat alive, seemingly dead

So often we overlook some of the very best people, and let me tell you this Queen is amazing. I won't share her name or true detail to her story, but what I will share is that she has a heart made of gold. Seldom to people realize it because when they look at her they cower. They avert their stares. They cross the street. The mumble under their breath about how people like her should cease to breathe or how they need to figure themselves out. Well this might be news to the world, but coming out doesn't mean we deal with your emotions over the situation. It means you are privileged enough to hear our stories. It will be a privilege for you to hear a fraction of hers.

The people that know her say she wears her smile like the sun as it sets. People were always waiting for it to show, and when it did it was the most beautiful smile you would see. Her style was ever changing as she went from trend to trend, but you barely saw her with her clothes on. No one knew what she was going through. Her family didn't even care. She was on her own and had been for a time. It took her years to feel like she could be herself. Burlesque was just a part of that-- becoming herself.

Each night she brought home stacks of ones. Her size twelve heels were kicked behind the door and her wig lay on her boudoir waiting to be brushed for the next evening. She stepped into the shower and turned the temperature as hot as she could bear it; torn panty hose lay outside the tub and makeup ran down her face. The night began to drain from her body. She filled the tub and the water sat up to her breast. She looked down at them, uneven pecks. She began lathering soap on her arms, chest, legs and then the space between her thighs. Her penis lay limp with no feeling. How she longed to feel whole. She wished for the chance to become the woman she wants to be. She thinks about how she doesn't need to change, but maybe if she did it would make her feel more complete. Maybe it will or maybe she will feel exactly as she does now.

Her name isn't as important as her story. Sometimes people want their privacy. After all she says, "I only represents one person in a vast community, but my experience might be relatable to some." She told me how she longs to share her story, but she cannot find the words. It is hard to be courageous right now, especially in this world. She gives and she gives, but seldom receives. Growing up she saw doctors and was told it was a phase and later on a disease. Labeled as mental, this woman had issues with gender. She was beaten by family and peers all in the hopes the title queer would leave her. She wrote down every name she was called in a leather bound book and in order to forget she drank a handle and swallowed a bottle of pills; however, nothing worked. When she found herself out of that place and on her way to a higher education she pretended to be the perfect man. She dressed simply and wore her hair clean cut. She went on dates and even made love to the women she compared herself to.

Her unhappiness was registered by a very close friend. She broke. She cried and she finally came to terms with the woman she is and her friend held her close and just said, "I love you. I hope you know this." It was that day he (himself) died and she (herself) truly began to live. Beaten with unkind words and sometimes physical violence she longed for something to change. She slept with a different man often, trying to feed her appetite. She often thought that it would take the pain away. To be loved over and over and by many, but quickly realized that she was just used for her celebrity and for her identity. Tired of being fetishized, she longed to settle down, but it's hard to find the one when every man acts like a boy and they forget she once pretended to be one.

Sometimes feeling alone she reaches down between her legs. What a foreign place for a woman. She remembers when she felt something there, a tingling sensation perhaps. She wished she could fit the mold of society, but also wishes that she could just simply be. What will it take for people to accept her? How many like her have to die before people realize they are human? Will she every see equality? She says these are the questions that keep her up at night. She thinks aloud how it could have been her at Orlando. Or how she could have been shot on the street. How people just don't understand what it's like to be looked down upon by every single person you meet.

She works too damn hard to be living like this. To be treated as inferior-- like society's secret mistress. A lot of people forget how Trans* began a revolution. How LGBTQ+ got it's foot in the door. How a lot of it started in underground clubs. Divas voguing, dressing in drag, and flaunting their colors with PRIDE. It's sad that individuals like this QUEEN have to put the show away and hide. Everyone just wants to be accepted. Everyone wants the same equal rights. So why did this Queen have to live such a hard life?

I'll tell you she's happy now and very secure in herself. Don't treat her with disrespect. Don't curse, and don't yell. Look at her in her eyes and know she is so proud to be a woman. She is strong. She is courageous. And she is not afraid of staying true to herself, but it took her a long time to get there-- to look down at her penis and then in the mirror, to look into her own eyes, to give self love, and to heal.

This story doesn't seem very R- rated, but yet I'd argue it is because what we lack in sex, language, and violence you've already come up with in your head. This story is poorly written only because it is a second hand account, but if you heard it from her you wouldn't be able to close your mouth. Don't forget about the violence in the Trans* community during this month of PRIDE. This is an every day occurrence and they all need allies on their side.

Sincerely, a lesbian and king writing about a Queen who works at night.

Which one could I be? I thought I knew the answer, but the truth of the matter is that I never really know.

Which one?

On the good days I find myself very optimistic.

I don't need to worry.

I feel good.

Both intrinsic and extrinsic.

I'm motivated.

I'm happy.

I feel that I'm doing fine,

But then as I'm passing through I walk the line.

And very minimally, a toe will overstep or something will push me a bit towards the edge.

And at that time of day when something takes a turn.

I look inside myself and suddenly I've learned that I'm a pessimist, which is the worst.

I knew things would go wrong,

Because now nothing is going right.

It becomes the time to call it a day and simply turn out the lights,

Because at least when I'm sleeping

Nothing is out of place before my eyes.

But as I'm laying in my bed I slowly start to think.

And I think for hours.

Until I'm suddenly wide awake.

And I become a realist, because life happens and it can't always be perfect.

I learned that my optimism is important for when things are going wrong, but if I stay that way all the time pessimism becomes my song, and it's sad because then I find myself at war with my mind and when I can finally get through it becomes a battle of what is real and what is not. I sort through my emotions and push away the drama. But I realized I'm not any of the three. And I think I fit into all categories you see? Different times. Different measures. I'll leave you with this, there's no storm I can't weather.

I am optimistic.

I can be a pessimist.

But in the end, I remember to be a realist when I need to check my reality.

Mostly, if I'm true to my nature, I stay optimistic.

Strength is seemingly to be masculine, or so I was taught.

Boys are strong, and girls are.. Not.

I believed I could do anything, so eventually I did.

I made guys uncomfortable when I was stronger or when I would lift.

But I learned there was more to it.

Strength is lying on the floor contemplating your life, but continuing to live.

Strength is allowing yourself to feel the pain and using it constructively.

Strength is pushing yourself.

Strength is being resilient.

Strength is holding on.

Strength is telling yourself you will endure.

So yes, strength can be a sort of training.

But strength is and always will be a mental game.

f-e-m-a-l-e

A shadow of M-A-L-E

Since the beginning of time,

Adam and the woman, Eve

Through my religion,

Seen as weaker, lesser,

No need for a voice,

No need for recognition

f-e-m-a-l-E

A shadow of M-A-L-E

Marriage is between a woman, and a man

Consummate the marriage before the ring is on your hand,

I’ll be damned.

And God forbid I should ever love a girl,

I’ll fall from heaven,

And I shall inherit the earth.

Spend the rest of my days burning in Hell,

Someone get me a glass of ice water

I wanna see the steam from the flames,

No one to hear me, to save me, as I yell

f-e-m-a-L-E

A shadow of  M-A-L-E

Not as strong,

Not equal or any better

Because society says so,

But is that something you know?

We all can hope for equality,

But you have to remember that for

Many situations this isn’t a reality

f-e-m-A-L-E

A shadow of a M-A-L-E

You hit like a girl,

You dress like a boy,

Why do you let her play in the dirt?

Behave like a lady,

Sit with your legs crossed,

You are not a boy.

f-e-M-A-L-E

A shadow of a M-A-L-E

Never heard, always told to listen

I held down my rage as I stomached jokes growing up, even now,

about how I belong in the kitchen

I was pissed off,

They had my blood boiling,

And I felt like I had been ripped off.

But then I wondered, “Who is to blame, who is at fault?”

f-E-M-A-L-E

A shadow of a M-A-L-E

I couldn’t narrow it down to one culprit,

No one had that much ambition,

To destroy equality, and if so,

What a disposition?

Who would deserve the recognition?

Who wanted so badly to make myself,

and other women so unequal to a man?

There was no answer, but I was told, “Life just happens, ma’am.”

F-E-M-A-L-E

A shadow of a M-A-L-E

I’m not quite sure how to communicate it,

In the past or even now,

But I will do my best,

I’ll show you somehow,

It takes years,

It takes time,

And so little ever changes.

We think things have evolved,

Are enough women involved?

But have things changed as much as we think?

Whose names are in the books?

Are they printed in pencil or in ink?

How do we educate and how do we learn if our fate is determined by our gender at birth?

Who then determines how much you are worth?

Sadly, not you, nor not I

But Society’s watchful eyes

How do we illicit change?

What questions must we answer?

Is there a solution?

Can equality happen, now,

Or even ever?

I’m not sure.

But I’m more than my gender.

Voices are worth more than the right answers,

We all just need to be heard.

f-e-m-a-l-e

m-a-l-e

six letters vs four

that’s the difference I see,

need I say any more?