People come out in different ways.

I am bipolar

I've taken lithium for 37 years

so I have tremors

I try to hide both conditions

working hard to control my moods

keep the trembling from showing while fighting back anxiety

staying out of the public eye so no one will notice.

Coming out

with any invisible attribute

those things no one can see 

but are difficult to deal with

meaning discrimination 

subtle or not

but mostly knowing once you tell

no one is eve going to treat you the same     

                                                              again.

Letting out whatever secret is clawing at your soul 

removes the pain of hiding

from your scared up inside

for the world to deal with

know longer your's but someone else's problem.

You've overcome the greatest hurdle.

"So.." I had to kill this awkward silence. "What kind of music do you like?"

"Oh! Yeah, you know, Mo-Town, soul, but like the old style stuff, like Etta James or Stevie Wonder. And anything on the Dap-Tone label."

What's Dap-Tone? How does she know this? Why did I ask her about music? Why did I agree to this date? I'm gonna kill Drew next time I see him.

"What about you? What music do you like?"

"Uh... you know. Mostly like, whats on the radio. Pop... and all that..." Music has never been my thing, but I had kinda run out of things to ask her about that weren't super insensitive. Crap. Change the subject. 

"Hey, I just wanted to let you know, that waiter made way too big a deal about your order."

"Oh, that, yeah, no I can see where he was coming from."

"Still, its your food, and I don't think there is anything in the health code about serving raw meat, especially if you're aware of the risks."

"It's fine, really, the sushi will be okay."

"Do you eat much fish? Like, at home?"

She shakes her head, "Not really, its mostly roots, berries, and whatever smallish mammal we can get our hands on."

"Cool. My grandma used to make killer rabbit stew. So, how do you know Drew?" 

"He was on one of those Discovery Channel shows, looking for my dad. 'Chasing Bigfoot,' I think."

"Right on." Drew is such a douche for this.

My uncle sees dragons. He visits me all the time. Sometimes more unexpectedly than most! Today he appears at the door, his beard long and wavy, curling down to the floor. He whips out a monocle and stares down at me.

Despite both us of having perfect hearing, he yells, “Guess what I’ve seen!”

“What!” I cry, not knowing if his beard is real, what a monocle is, and why there’s a miniature hot air balloon tied to his back.

My uncle lowers his monocle and stares at me, his smiling face shifting suddenly serious, “I’ve seen a dragon.”

I stare in amazement, for what else can I do but be amazed?

“Dragon?” I repeat.

My uncle stands, and scoops me up in his arms, “A most ferocious dragon,” he says! “Most vile and voluptuous indeed!”

My Uncle strides in my house, and it vanishes. The couches turn to mossy hillocks and the walls into vast horizons. He tells me a tale of winged scales and flapping wings. He sings of patchwork canvas and thrashing thickets. He says he survived – but just barely.

I tear off his fake beard and we laugh until my mom takes me away and tells me, “There are no such things as dragons!”

I am four years old.

“My uncle sees dragons,” I say to my best friend at lunch time. The cafeteria is packed, and usually the other kids leave us alone. Most days we eat as fast as we can before running outside to play, but today is different.

I tell my friend, “My uncle visited me yesterday.”

She looks at me with her mouth full of food and I shove my new necklace in her face. “It’s a dragon’s tooth. A REAL dragon’s tooth,” I say haughtily as I swing it in front of her eyes. “Uncle says it keeps whomever holds it safe from all harm!”

I watch her face billow with amazement as I begin to tell her my uncle’s most recent story. She believes in dragons. The kids next to us do not.

“That’s not a dragon’s tooth!” The boy next to me squeals, his friends beginning to laugh.

“Yes it is!” I shout, my voice curling with flames and my teeth slick with venom.

The boy laughs with his friends, and the three of them shout in unison before waddling off outside, “There are no such things as dragons!”

I am twelve years old.

My uncle sees dragons. He hasn’t though, not for a while now. He hasn’t come by with stories since I’ve been back from college. Something about an accident. Mom says we can’t see him, at least not yet. I rub the dragon tooth around my neck, and think back to all of his silly antics.

“Don’t worry,” my mom says over her shoulder as she washes dishes. “The doctors say it’s temporary.”

“Stupid tooth, stupid dragons,” I say as I toss the necklace on the floor, wishing my uncle had never given it away. Not that it matters now. I think old hated words as I stare at the broken tooth and twisted fiber. “There are no such things as dragons.”

I am twenty three years old.

My Uncle sees dragons. He used too anyway. We drive to his new home.

“Home,” I say out the window with resentment as the wind blows my hair over swollen eyes.

My family is silent as we drive to where my uncle stays. My family is silent as we walk to the building and go inside.

My father hears squeaking, rapid and quick, like two metal rails slamming and banging on the tile. We rush to my uncle’s room and toss his door wide. We see him lowering in his chair as he slowly comes back down to a gentle rock.

He looks over at me, and for a brief moment...

I see a match! A flash! An explosion! My heart jumps up and pauses. Our eyes rise to the occasion once more - one last time.

Not even fifteen, ten, or five seconds since he halted his rickety wagon, I know my uncle had just seen a dragon!

My family begins to fill my vision as my uncle turns to face the window. My eyes catch the fading ribbons of a wavy shadow that grace the glass before him. Vanishing as quickly as it had come, I know it will not return.

“Finally,” I say aloud, “There are no such things as dragons.”

I am four years old.

I knew choosing a restaurant by the ocean had been the right choice when I saw her smile, her lips stretched wide as she flashed her pearly whites at me. Her scales had shimmered under the moonlight, the end of her tail grazing my jean clad leg. It was a sensation I had never felt before, but it left my heart pounding. 

I had never been out on a date with a mermaid before, but I knew once I saw her that I was hooked. Conversation never ceased through the night, not even when our plates were empty and the restaurant was beginning to clear out. My hand gravitated towards hers, my fingers skimming her velvety soft skin. 

And when I kissed her at the end of the night, I knew I would never be able to place my lips over someone else's. Hers were so soft, plump and addicting that I could kiss her forever. They were salty like the sea, and I found myself craving the taste more and more. 

Did I ever think I would date a mermaid? Never. 

Was I glad I did? Hell yeah. 

I agreed to meet Ouroboros at a neutral location. When I arrived at the restaurant, he had already ordered, and was biting into his own tail. I tried to make small talk, but he didn't seem too interested. I left him sitting at the table, but I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't even notice I was gone. He was so full of himself!

The atmosphere seemed to echo and scream with ejaculated shame. Cheap detergents attempted to over-compensate for the cloying odor of bathroom-blood and discarded flesh, but the artificially floral scent only added an extra layer to the unprofessional squalor. Here, in this horrific black-market abortion chamber, Cara's water broke. 

Cara's whole body shuddered with an unexpected spasm of pain. She crouched against the wall, shivering with too much agony to even be embarrassed at the liquid trickling from her crotch onto the already stained carpet. She overheard Mrs Jen talking to an old man with glasses, catching partial phrases between the throngs of her contractions. "...Too far along...""....there has to ... " "...you can do..." "... help us." Mrs Jen sank to her knees in prayer, terrified tears distorting her makeup. The man with glasses lifted her to her feet and muttered something right before Cara passed out.

~

It was two years ago, on Cara's 8th birthday, that Mrs. Jen walked out the front doors of the F.P.F and came back some 6 hours later with Jam. Jam was about 10 yrs old and mute. Nobody knew where he came from; he was found wandering the streets by a local deputy, and after numerous failed attempts to find his family, was brought to the only foster home in town. The F.P.F (Family Placement Facility) or "Foster Purgatory Factory" as the children liked to call it, was a converted hospital building, home to 32 children, now 33 with the silent addition of Jam. Mrs. Jen ran the whole facility almost by herself, save for Mr. Frint, the Janitor, and an occasional volunteer from the local church. 

Cara was there when Mr Frint showed Jam to his new bunk. He stared without fear at the big over-head surgery lights hanging from mechanical arms, and the bunk beds made of wheel-damaged gurneys screwed together into the walls. Cara remembered smiling at his curly black hair and dark eyes. None of the kids new anything about him, but if you went up and asked him what his name was, he delved into the pocket of his loose cargo pants and pulled out a battered empty sachet of Strawberry Jam.

Jam's silence was startling to the other children, but to Cara it reminded her of a far off faded memory of home... Somewhere quiet and peaceful, with no playing screams or scary mechanical noises. Day after day she sat with him down at the back garden wall, enjoying his silent company. At first she sat a foot away, giving him respectfully curious glances. Then slowly but surely he welcomed her closer. Each day she inched toward him on the broken brick wall out the back of the F.P.F, till one day they held hands and she leaned against him lovingly.

At night sometimes Cara grew scared of all the sleeping noises and the humming electrical generator. She used to try to imagine a home for herself, a quiet place with trees, to help her drift off to sleep, but lately she began to think of Jam instead. One night when something clanged particularly loudly, she crawled over to Jam's bunk and snuck in under the covers. He was awake too, staring out the window at the moonlight. His steady heart and silent eyes were so comforting. Jam smiled at her, and hugged her gently. She wanted to feel him closer, but she didn't know how.

During the next weeks the nights were cold and dark. Cara crawled back over to Jams bunk, and he cradled her warmly through the nights. Neither Cara nor Jam knew why their bodies were drawn to each other. They undressed simply to feel closer. Giddy with adventure, nervous fingers stickily caressed goosebumps and innocent instincts sweated against warm starchy sheets. 

Cara hadn't told a soul in the foster home that her period hadn't come for months. Mrs. Jen was kind-natured, but she'd seen too much sin in her overworked years, and in effect she had instilled too much emphasis on the damning aspects of religion. 

When a pudgy bump fluttered in Cara's tummy, her heart skipped with fear. She couldn't find the courage to tell Mrs. Jen that she was possessed by an evil spirit, or maybe a demon growing inside her. She didn't even know what it meant when her nipples leaked hot fluid in the night. Too scared to show anyone the crusty patches, she hid the milk-tainted nightgown in the darkest corner under her bunk and cautiously wrapped her chest in toilet tissue. She cried herself to sleep each night as the bump in her tummy grew bigger and bigger. Frightened for her soul, Cara began to nibble anorexically and borrow baggy clothes.

Cara's tear-snot grew cold and smelly on the dampened pillow top, so she flipped it over to the dry side, shifting herself into an equal huddle in the opposite direction. Her salt-stung eyes made out the sleeping silhouette of Jam. His deep steady breaths were highlighted by the starlight of the window. She wanted to crawl back in his bunk, to feel his warmth again, but she was too ashamed of her tears to wake him. She didn't want to face the confused expression she knew he'd give her, and she was scared that Jam might feel her tummy bump or find the chest tissues and know she was possessed.

After months of endless fear, Cara's secret was finally noticed by another girl at bath-time. Mrs. Jen panicked. she knew that she would be blamed for child abuse. No-one would believe the devil worked through children too. Breath ragged with desperation, Mrs. Jen looked to the street for solutions. She had heard of a retired Doctor in town who practiced abortions. Maybe the pregnancy wasn't far along. If only Mrs. Jen had thought more of Cara's corporeal safety, instead of praying for her souls transgressions, she might not have taken Cara to that doctors house. But now was too late. Cara collapsed onto the old stained carpet. 

~

The next morning Mrs. Jen returned to the F.P.F with a tiny baby boy. She took him to the nursery and wrapped him in blankets in a little crib. At breakfast time she told the children that Cara had been placed with a new family. Most of the children let out groans of jealousy. But in the back of the room Jam's silent eyes swelled with grief. He stood slowly, as if with grave purpose, and walked out through the back door. Jam kept walking down past the broken brick wall, vanishing into the trees. Just like that, as mysteriously as he had arrived, he was gone. Nobody at the F.P.F ever saw him again. 

After breakfast Mrs. Jen walked into the nursery and gasped in shock. The baby was missing. In his place on the little crib mattress lay a battered empty sachet of Strawberry Jam. 

He was the one who shattered the dreams of kids. The hidden criminal who stole the gleeful smiles and the sparkling eyes of every single culprit. He took the unperturbed conscience of the innocent world, the luminescent light that roamed every corner, and twisted the faultless universe into an underworld of warfare and crime.

Or so that’s what they thought.

Looks are deceiving. Everyone is beautiful. We are not skin-deep, is all the inequitable world could say. But their trivial remarks would bend into a shining orb that mirrored their hypocrisy and prejudice. They would mend their unjust affairs and throw their remorseless lies on the gentle monster of the unseen world.

For all they had ever known, he was always there. The tender giant that slept under the beds of little children.

He was a lost shadow, only a whisper to what he beheld and truly was. A placid friend at heart, only to be ripped into the realms of a vicious monster. Candidly, he was an adrift beast of pure intention, searching for a friend with an open mind and a spiraling character.

And so he rested beneath the rickety mattresses of young kids, knowing that the newly born souls were genuine and true.

But he was wrong.

Around the world, society slowly tore the friendly beast into a devil of cruel works and wicked majesty. They would make kids of young and old inculcate their nefarious stories of the evil monster that cleverly hid under their beds. Movies, books, sayings… they were all present to dethrone the provision of a compassionate beast.

So youthful children began closing their closets and putting glistening lamps beneath their sleeping kingdoms. They started telling others of the savage giant and began believing the perverse deceits of the world.

And so the cycle commenced. Future generations were exposed to the darkening light and the devious acts of the murderous monster.

The world became worse and worse until not even people of the same blood could trust each other… they became more sadistic, more cold-blooded, more inhuman.

It was simple. A plan so astute, so clever, that no genius could stop the world-wide domination of the competent lies.

The world would persist in their wrongful discriminations -- mounding up accusations, falsehoods, and untruths -- until the count was so many that the kind beast was a demon, possessor of subtle assassination.

For now, he would stay as the monster underneath the bed.

It is thought that the more people the merrier, as to more minds build a stronger and more intelligent world. But unlike the floating phrases softly sewn into the wind, the world strained of this wisdom would transform their initial refined ideals into a dark and dastardly universe.

And it would stay like this for some time.

Even though the powerful remembrance of goodness was once alive, the world would never learn from their ignorant mistakes... Their lies once truths...

because they were too afraid to realize that the monsters were in them all along.

What to call this person?   Was it he, she, they, it?   Or maybe it was a combination of all of them.   Some days, he felt more like a man, and he lusted for women, feeling the testosterone beating against his skull.   Others she felt quite feminine, trying on fancy dresses in the back of failing costume shops and feeling stirrings of longing in her heart whenever anyone walked by pushing a stroller.

Alex was what non- medical specialists called a hermaphrodite, with both sets of parts underneath a deliberately androgynous exterior, short but stylish brown hair, multiple but artistic piercings, and beautiful and mysterious tattoos, each of which meant something, but only to Alex.   Alex was perfectly fine remaining an unknown, a blank box, a non-binary person.   Alex knew that society expected one to choose, but Alex didn't want to.   Why should they?   It was more fun to see where the day took you, to decide what you wanted to wear and who you wanted to be at any given moment.  

Alex's job working the stockroom at a big box store gave Alex the freedom to choose, as no one ever needed to see them.   Unfortunately, the boss wasn't too flexible about gender, so Alex had to tell people he was a man and stick to it most of the time.   It was unfortunate, but if you wanted a job, this was the kind of compromise you had to make.

Alex was a free spirit, sexually, spiritually, emotionally, but felt stifled at work.   The one thing Alex hated above all else was falsehood, whether it was false charm, false hair or outright lies, but right now, it seemed like every day was a lie, each one building on the next, the weight of it slowly crushing out all breath until it felt like Alex was going to die.

Sometimes she wanted to get long plastic fingernails or bright red lipstick, but that would be too much for her boss, so, she let a fun experience, a small but significant piece of expression, pass her by, and he remained the same.

Alex had seen what happened to people like them.   Alex had heard nightmare stories of people being attacked on the streets, because a straight man had hit on them and they were biologically male, or they had just come out of a drag bar, or just because they wanted to use the bathroom they felt they had a right to use.   That wasn't going to be Alex.   They still had dreams.   Alex wanted to be a musician, to sing and play guitar like an angel, to make tears stream down the faces of their audience because the song struck a place inside them and vibrated like a tuning fork.

How was that going to happen?   Alex had no money and a broken guitar, but those were both excuses, really.   Alex could have found a way, but the fact of the matter was, Alex was just too scared.   A person can build something up so much in their head that they become as paralyzed as if a bullet had struck their spines.   How Alex was going to get past it, Alex didn't know.   It just seemed too hard.

"Hi, I was just looking out my window and I couldn't help but to notice a Yorkshire Terrier in the street outside my house. I believe that the same dog was chased by the local kids back here. Is he your dog?"

"Yea, he my dog."

"Oh, great. I'm glad he's safe, then. He was just so small and skiddish, I didn't want him to get hurt. You know how the people speed down here."

"Why you talkin' like dat?"

"Like what?"

"Like that."

"It's English."

"I know what the hell it is. Why you speakin' it like that?"

"I'm a native speaker."

"Don't tell me what the fuck I already know. You sound white."

"I didn't realize that colors have sounds."

"I mean like white people, lil' gurl."

"So are you trying to say that my voice sounds akin to a white woman's usual dialect?"

"Stop gettin' smart with me, bitch."

"So now I'm an increasingly intelligent female dog? I feel as if I should see that as a compliment."

"..."

"Have a great day, ma'am."

I bleed like you bleed

But I do not feed like you feed 

You take what's not given, you take what you need

You take without asking, you're a thief 

I give without reason 

You take without warning

I love without expectation 

You feed off my mourning 

My intention's pure 

While you trap and lure

I fell victim to your embrace 

Unknowing I was just another phase

Now I feel as though I bleed a different shade of red

My heart numb, thoughts spinning in my head

I reach for comfort in anything that doesn't remind me of you

A different bed, anyone's will do

I'd take a dose of anything if it promised I'd forget you 

I'd let another occupy my body, my mind, anyone will do

I'd take my own life, I'd swallow my pride

As long as I didn't have to see you on the other side