Dead Name


I scratch at my face till all that is left of me is the facial hair
that I was told to shave a week ago.
I want to scream, shred my vocal cords and get out every ounce of distress.
Instead, I yell at the person before me. Screaming is too feminine for tonight.
Tonight, I am testosterone and rage. I am killing a girl
with my own hands. I raise the hammer
over my head, and I slam down.
The shatter echoes through the room, the woman fractured in the glass.

I crouch down to observe the mosaic. All I can focus on are the doe-like eyes
staring deeply into my own. This is what they all see.
When they stare, they see her eyes, her small stature, her chest.
They hear her shrill voice. It perplexes them.
I can’t blame them; I see her just as they do.
Throat coarse, I want to say her name one last time
as a parting gift.
Her eyes scan my figure, and she breaks into a sob
as she fails to see the man that is killing her.
I stand up and look down in disgust. I stomp once more to ensure
she is broken and gone.
I turn off the lights
and leave.

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Tags : queer, transgender, identity

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