How many blinks till you’re 23?
How many cries till you’re 35?
How many lies to 60?
When you die do you remember them all?

How many questions till they stop listening?
Two, if you’re lucky.
One if you’re not.

If they listened they’d know
I’m not asking questions.
I’m making statements
they just have a question mark at the end.

If I’m asking a question
I mean it more
than what I say.

(How do you survive
when survival comes at the price
of a life?)

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Why do you like me?
I drink battery acid
and shit pneumonia,
I’m sweeter than saccharin
and twice as bitter.

I try to be kind
but it comes out harsh
stabbing livers and kidneys.
As they die in front of me
my victims cry.

I’m asked to give the eulogy.

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It’s strange
to like yourself less
than the people who adore you.
To love them
trust them
respect their opinion
on all topics but yourself.
It’s hell.

If I try
very hard
I can hear voices
screaming in the diaspora.

(Flowers bloom at midnight
but only certain ones.)

I’m used to
liking myself more
than the people who surround me.
It’s not that I’m great
I’m a lot to handle
I’m a dry, hot breeze
on a dry, hot day.
But I’m comfortable.

Their mouths move
but their speech is
It thrums along my spine.

(Graveyards shouldn’t grow flowers
the souls take too much space)

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It’s hard to meet new people.
Their minds inscrutable
their brains well known.
I flail in the starlight
of their emotions
searching for the moon
(but it’s new and dark).

Where I’m deep
people try to wade.
Where I’m shallow
they dive.
I break skulls with feathers.
I slit throats with plastic.
Cassandra, I warn them
but I also end them.
(Maybe I don’t want to be known?)

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When I dance with moonbeams
late at night on Purim
sometimes it goes slow
but often I know
it’s the movement,
not the speed,
that matters.

If I see fit to move left
Selene moves right
following me in the night.
She moves around me
Orion watching
protecting our sanctity.

I will likely never wed a woman
but if I ever did
I hope she’s like Purim
Fun, strong, willful
and playful with kids

I will likely never wed a man
but if I ever did
I hope he’s like Orion
Strong, protective, loving
Atoning, giving all for his kids.

If I wed, it’ll likely be an enby
Someone like me but different
I hope they love me
as much as I love them
And that we bring that love
to our little kids.

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A little man blocked the little boi
standing in the door.
He drank rum and gin
from three glass jars
And with a grin
asked for riddles.

The boi thought and thought
and a spark came to them
“If I drink from your third jar
what would it be?”
The man grew his grin
turned it sideways
and said
“What it was before?
What it ever will be.
After a little boi drinks
it would be empty.”

The boi nodded once.
The man cackled twice.
“My turn, then,”
he said, sitting down in his place
“If you had to love a woman,”
“I surely wouldn’t” the boi cried.
“If you had to” he said,
“Who would be by your side?”

The little boi thought
they just didn’t know.
“My mother,” they said,
“she used to sew
and make me warm blankets
and socks and sweaters.
I think she loved me.
So I think I loved her.”

The little man’s lips pursed
like a zippered up zipper.
He was not expecting
an answer so chipper so
deeply sweet and true
that got at the answer:
the one who loves you.

The riddling went back
and forth and back
till the little boy sat there
consternation wracked.
He was thinking and searching
for an answer that worked.
“If you had to kill a man”
the little man started.
“I wouldn’t” the boi cried.
“If you had to,” he replied,
“how would you choose?”

After a long think.
And supper!
Tuna fish on rye.
The little boi answered
quiet and shy
“Myself,” they said,
reserved, in a whisper
“I’ve never been much
of a man, so it’s quicker”

The little man laughed
and patted their head.
“Nor would you have been
before you were dead.”
He got up and stretched
and walked down the hall
through where the little boi wasn’t
not a sign of them at all.

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Inklings sucked
into droppers of oils
distilled into morals
that only men
who hate their bodies
and wish they had less
can possibly think
are beautiful.

I’m beautiful
it’s just that
I’m ugly, too.

If I could be good
I would.
But I don’t
even want to.

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I dream of endings
stripped from beginnings
and middles torn to shreds.

I dream of oceans without shores
ancient myths and beasts of lore
Burrowed deep in their depths.

If I dreamt of mothers without babes
and babes without fathers, would I
be dreaming fantasy or just myself?

If living is only good when I’m high
tell me, why do so many insist I try?
If I don’t see the skies as blue
but instead a darker, more sinister hue,
do I need to pretend for the comfort of lovers
or find a different way to feel less smothered?

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I was in a rock band
when I went to bed last night
we played deconstructed covers
made out on stage like lovers
when they heard my words
they roared
when they heard his chords
they soared
I soared
I scored
and when I woke up
he didn’t love me anymore
(Dreams are just
skeletons in caskets)

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It’s hard to hear
you’ve lost
when you’ve done everything right.

It’s hard to be
with just yourself
when you miss loving tenderness at night.

It’s hard to know
yourself as lovable
when you can’t find a person to love.

It’s hard to rely
on tired pop culture
when you don’t have the words yourself.

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