he only thinks I'm smart because I'm beautiful

which is saddening

because I'm one of the most interesting, intelligent people I know

and while my beauty fades

my mind will get sharper

my wisdom deeper

my soul will expand

but he will still be stuck on lips that are no longer red

reciting quips that no longer represent

the breadth of who I am

do not adorn Beauty in Death

to find what makes Death beautiful

look Death square in the eye 

comb through it

and learn to find beauty 

in the maggots, rot, and grief

instead of hacking off the most palatable bits

and leaving yourself unprepared for the rest

behind this face there is power

however strong

and heartache and longing

behind this face there is whit

wonder and wisdom

behind this face there is cruelty

and the hard fought unlearning of the same

behind this face there is flesh

fat muscle and bone and the soft squish of a brain

synapses firing and electricity trying

to spark thoughts into wants

into life

behind this face there is grief

belief systems and

opinions on systemic oppression

depression and the wish for relief

behind this face there is joy

that sometimes bleeds through

and paints this face faster

and more skillfully than this hand can

behind this face there is a universe 

a journey more wonderful than you can imagine

a path to wander and wonder at

a river to swim if you ask politely before you dive in

a street your feet can find a place on 

and yet you trip up 

and can't get past this face. 

my aesthetic is color shape sound smell sensation

my aesthetic is deep cool colors

navy blue, evergreen, dark stone grey,

unyielding teal

warm blood and burgundy

fox fur red and golden threads

silver pendants and brass rings

my aesthetic is feathers in my hair

lips you know are there

brows drawn bold and sharp

lashes that spike and liner that glitters

and teeth that cut the dentist

my aesthetic is tall collars and long hems

my aesthetic is poet shirts and cozy socks

sleeves rolled to the elbows

tails tied at the waist

my aesthetic is a feeling and a place

my aesthetic is rainfall

fog drifting through deep green trees

rising to the forest from the sea

my aesthetic is cold ocean breezes and hot firewood

my aesthetic is candlelight

moonlit nights

dim and bright all at once

my aesthetic is regal and real

structured and slouching

messy and clean

my aesthetic is towers and bridges

trolls, goblins, and witches

raven wings, fox tails, cat eyes, and bee stings

my aesthetic is neither luxurious nor squalorly

my aesthetic is scholarly

my aesthetic is notes hand strewn across the walls

my aesthetic is scrawling designs and simple lines

and sweeping, graceful curves

my aesthetic is old book smell

scent of fig leaves and caviar

and clay smeared across my face

my aesthetic is care

my aesthetic is haste

my aesthetic is littered with coffee cups

accented with soft stone ceramics

my aesthetic is stomping boots and standing tall

my aesthetic is the roar and the hum

my aesthetic is the slice of string and beat of drum

my aesthetic is smoke and spoken word

rushing battle cries

and sparkling tears

and sparkling tears streaming

from solid grey eyes

it is my symbols of familiarity,

like me, constantly changing with time. 

I am sick

I am ill

I am not doing well

I am stalwart

I am strong

I can keep on keeping on

"Passing" is not a privilege. 

The effects of marginalization do not disappear

because someone thinks that 

you do not look the part. 

"Passing" can be a tool. 

It can get you through the day. 

It can keep you alive. 

The benefits are conditional

and, frankly, I don't think they out-way

the ways that "passing" causes harm. 

"Passing" is not a privilege. 

I do not wish for you survival

I wish for you to thrive

To live a life worth living

Not just to stay alive

And while I wish for you upheaval

I wish too for you peace

For growth for love for giving

I wish for much more than the least

My relationship with touch is being taken away. 

Corrupted into something I can’t chose, 

Something that is acted upon me.

People hold me for comfort,

Push me away when I try to do the same,

Think little else of what our relationship could possibly be.

Always ask if someone wants a hug,

That’s what I do,

Because while my impulse is to reach out and hold them

I can’t just take away their right

To not be wrapped up in what might’ve been a self-serving embrace as it is.

But people hold onto me without asking all the time. 

Lay their head to my breast,

Play with my hair,

Rest upon my shoulder.

Some of these are just absent minded gestures, 

Gestures I can fall into myself when all is well.

But lately the swipes at my ass, snatches at my neck,

And imagined tortures projected at me by hardened eyes 

Have outweighed the softness.

The leans have become more lascivious,

The holds more jarring.

Every touch is an invasion now.

And my own touches become harsher. 

Become defense.

Devices to shove off, not hold close.

I want to be held unselfishly close

By someone who does not care about my physical appeal

Someone who does not wish to break my spirit,

But by someone who simply wants to feel the tension ebb out of my body 

As I fall asleep in their arms.

But every touch is an invasion now.

So, I am stalling--

Here on this broken stone road

Afraid of what ifs--

Stalling out, and up

The road a ways I see you,

Stood still and quiet.

Up the road a ways

You are there as if waiting.

Not stalling like me. 

Ways I cannot see

Take you where you need to be--

No stone roads guide you!

You are your own road. 

Un-stone, unbroken.