I can almost imagine it's autumn.

It's after lunch time and I'm sitting

in the back of my last college lecture of the day.

A lifeless blue chair that has an arm

wrapped around in the form of a desk

is the only thing separating me from the

cold concrete wall. There's a window right

behind me but the blinds are closed.

If I close my eyes,

I can imagine it's autumn

with the leaves falling to the ground behind me.

A train horn sounds in the distance--

the same train that went right past my

childhood home. I wonder when the

last time I jumped in a leaf pile was or

dragged the massive blue tarp to the burn pile.

I wonder when the last time I ran

through my backyard was. I wonder

when the last time I ate a chocolate chip

Eggo waffle was. I can't do things anymore--

they remind me of you.

I can almost imagine it's autumn.

But autumn will never be the same

as it was when you were here.

They'd begun wearing their glasses at night in fifth grade, after the nightmare happened the first time. That's how it started. The glasses. They could never quite articulate why they needed to wear their glasses at night, only knew that they had to in order to keep the nightmares away.

And that worked. For about a month.

Then they had to take their glasses off during the day. Obviously that was the problem. The glasses had to be worn at night, and only at night. They were sacred. Magic. Obviously.

Of course, that made school hard. Even sitting at the front of the room they found themself squinting to see the board. Their handwriting became nearly illegible.

But it worked.

For about a month.

They had to shave their head.

They had to sleep without a pillow.

They could no longer sleep in their bed.

All of these things worked.

For about a month.

And then they had to find some new trick, some new ritual, to keep the nightmares away. The nightmares that reminded them of a past they'd rather forget. They didn't want to think about their birth mom. They didn't want to think about the girl they used to be before they transitioned. They didn't want to remember the violent end to their innocence. They didn't want to remember the year in foster care before they found their permanent guardians. They didn't want to remember the struggle to get their legal name changed, to start HRT as a minor. They didn't want to remember who they were. But the nightmare kept toppling that, kept reminding them, and they needed it to go away.

They went to therapy.

And that worked.

For longer than a month.

my writing could be

described as

a hot girl at a party

no one has ever told her

she is annoying

or untalented

her ego unchecked

so she cozies up to

some poor party-goer

and talks forever

about her pretty nothings

until he makes some excuse

to leave the scene

leading her to believe

she is merely unknown

when she’s just drunk

calling herself misunderstood

intoxicated on fumes

and bad poems

seaweed in my mouth

like dry lips

i'm not what it's meant;

illusion.

birdbath heartbeat, all

nervous. obscene.

as if eyelashes could cure

the taste of salt on my

gooseflesh

rippled and greedy and dry

like seawater,

mermaid-hair noose,

tugging at me all my life,

one foot in the sea.

one foot in the sea,

eyes on

passing clouds.

maybe it’s too late

to buy a card

like treating me

with respect

it‘s too much effort

they say

forgive and forget

but Hallmark doesn’t make

greeting cards like that

A baby blue sky

A pink shirt and tie.

Mint green tea.

Lavender morning breeze.

A peach pile of pancakes,

On mauve, a pale purple plate.

My pastel colors start my day.

I'll grab my periwinkle jacket and be on my way.

“we accept the love

we think we deserve”

a line from The Perks

of Being a Wallflower

which I quote to myself

at In N Out

buying it all animal style

which you would know

the meaning of

if you understood

your own worth

a side of fries

for every time

you didn't feel

your own love heard

The rain poured down the windows. I stared out at the muddy yard. It had been raining for two weeks straight. The flowers were wilted and the tree branches droop.

I sighed, and murmured, "Oh, John! I miss you so much! When will you come back to me?"

A single tear ran down my cheek, and I brushed it away with the back of my hand.

"The world," I whispered, "Is hopeless! If this goes on, I may cast myself off of a cliff, to perish."

Drawing my shawl closer around my shoulders, I placed my palms against the cool, wet glass of the window.

"John? Will you ever return to me?" I exclaimed softly, "I love you, John! I was wrong! I shouldn't have said those wicked, wicked things!"

A few more tears coursed down my cheeks. My lip quivered as my unseeing eyes stared out at the rain. Suddenly, desperation set in:

"JOHN!!!" I screamed wildly, "COME BACK!"

The door behind me opened slowly, and a girl's young face appeared.

"Anna? Why are you yelling? Mom wants you to wash the dishes after you finish your homework."

I flung of the shawl in a hurry and complained with a frown, "Tracy! You interrupted me!"

"Yeah? Whatever. Who's John?"

"He's my lover, and he has left me."

Tracy's eyebrows shot up as she stared at me.

"Okay...anyway, Mom wants you to do the dishes."

As Tracy closed the door she finished with, "Maybe you shouldn't read so many romance novels..."

"Ugh," I said grumpily, as I dropped onto my bed, "What else is there to do with all this rain, anyway?"

Some nights I want a public death. I want

to have a funeral under a fragile moon with lavender

and people who care about me but have names

I don’t care enough to ever remember. I want

my therapist to listen to my midnight playlists with me

so she knows who she’s up against. I would die for many people

because I love untransactionally. I honestly prefer soft

economies where we trade biggest intimacies.

My secret is that I would wear my bones on my sleeves

if I didn’t get disapproving looks on the streets. I’m not perfect

but I would live naked if I could. Strangers could call me

crybaby and I’d thank them for the kindness. I’m grateful

for the internet because no one else understands me.

I tell all of this over the phone to Madison, who doesn’t listen

to Mitski, and that’s the difference between us;

I’m no longer ashamed of my desire.