The Poetry Marathon

I want to thank each person who saved me

from a tornado in my head. Those who

refused to entertain my resigning.

Those who offered me shelter, something new.

For every coping lesson, most just by

example. How do you build a tool kit?

I have learned bubbles are compulsory,

but so are tears, at least a little bit.

I didn’t know you could laugh through sirens,

making thunder a joyful song so long

as the sense of safety isn’t broken,

so long as you feel that you do belong.

Thank you for not letting me be the storm,

for holding me despite my savage form.

I have never liked olives. I have willed it, so many many times, but I have simply never liked them.

From the black rings that make constellations on a supreme pizza, to the green planets orbiting a martini glass, or wine dark gems warmly nestled next to garlic pieces in a finger bowl, the galaxy swirl of tapenades.

I see exactly how their briny, salty, fatty nature can completely change a dish, can elevate a salad, can punch you in the face with flavor.

I have seen olive groves with their peaceful leaves playing in the air, and I’ve tasted olive oils that are somehow as refreshing as lemonade, but the second the fruit itself hits my mouth, it’s a no.

I have spent years trying to find a way to like olives. I’ve expended time and effort attempting to somehow manifest some comfort with them; love for them. Trying to convince myself I could swallow this.

Don’t you think if it was a choice, I’d like olives by now? Don’t you think I know it’d be easier just to like them? Don’t you think I’m aware that I’m missing out on something delicious, wonderful, beautiful?

I don’t want to spend my time obsessing over trying to like olives anymore, not when there is so much else to explore. I don’t want to spend my time obsessing over trying to connect with the gender I was assigned at birth anymore, not when there is so much more to explore. Regardless of how attached other people are to olives.

There’s a certain liberation to realizing you are someones worst fear.

Its doubly enjoyable when that someone is a loved one

embrace their nightmare

embrace the boogeyman of your trans self

that self they want to be a perfect porcelain doll

instead you are perched upon the mantle with a knife hidden in your skirts

That self is the patient strapped to a metal chair in the asylum

faces blurred against the screen fighting the ice pick

That self is a reflection that doesn’t quite meet what’s happening on this side of the glass

that self is the shadow that comes from behind the curtain in the empty room in the empty house at the end of the empty block

that self is the fingers creeping up against the edge of your bed frame reaching somehow underneath the impenetrable shield of sheets that you have built

it is the monster under the bed but not yours, the monster under the bed of people who would rather see you live in your scarcity.

Those who would rather see you consumed by those fears, who would rather see you die in the status quo

Be the boogeyman for everybody whose own desires are repressed

Be the boogeyman for every man who wanted to wear a skirt; for every girl who wanted to help put away in the chairs after church

that healed self is a trickster god, bringing in chaos wreaking havoc

When you realize the healed self is a monster in their eyes, at first it’s hard, but then I found, it’s kinda freeing. Because then I could be all the things that used to scare me

I hear the moth caught in the stickied light trap

Unable to cry out in a way that I can hear

But the frantic beating of fluffed wings buffets my heartstrings just as well

I ache for it, feel sorrow that it suffers

But rejoice as the plug in works just as intended

And now the moth cannot make demons from the shadows

Cannot ambush my peace in the twi-lit kitchen

This creature suffers because I protected my serenity

Do I feel guilty about her pain, or about standing up for my tranquility?

Setting boundaries with words goes nowhere

Using other means feels like war

Im not sacrificing my sense of safety

To keep you flying high, moth(er)

There once was a queer with a sandwich

The crumbs got all over their hands which

drove them quite mad

but the sandwich wasn’t bad

and the fuel is required for mad shit

Hello!

My name is Dee and I’m grateful to be here!

Today I am focusing on the quote “Do the verb rather than trying to be the noun”

I’m at the tail end of the 3rd most difficult summer of my life (so far), but in the best way possible? They have been difficult because I got sick of masquerading, and went searching for a more authentic self. Poetry and a some other forms of art exist in a part of my brain that I’d spent a long time hiding, and now it’s the part of my brain I am spending the most effort on loving.

This comes with getting diagnosed with ADHD, and Complex PTSD, and coming out more thoroughly. I am Queer, with a whole host of other labels that feel good (transmasculine, nonbinary, genderqueer, gay, bisexual, pansexual, demisexual). I am chaotic, and food motivated, and sad, and joyful, and I’m excited to share more through my words.