Tiny Thoughts.

46

461
The lost people.
I am part of the lost people.
Eternally searching their way through documents, traditions, belongings.
I watch everyone finding their family. Their belief. Their people.
And I wait.

Historians! Oh! You are my religion.
I wait by the day,
Down to the hour, minute, second,
You are worshipped on my phone screen, like a sickly thin altar.
I wait like my mother and father waited,
Like my grandfather and grandmother,
And the maternal and paternal lines of my family.
Waiting.
Timing.
Echoing.
I wait for belonging.
For a return to my people.
My tradition.
For my community.
Ravaged by itself,
And in revenge,
Ravaged the world.
Heal.
I'd like to say to it.
Heal and be healed. Heal the ones you hurt. Heal the lives you took. The ones you ruined.
And free yourself.
Free yourself so I may be free.
So we may be.
So we all may be.

462
I bent my head back in eternal worship.
As my soul left my body.
This orgasmic awakening.
It is freeing.
This vibration.
It is seeing.
I buckle down in quivering vulnerability.
My skin clawed raw as I hug my knees and stare into the endless void off to my side.
And I think.
Like how the gods must have thought at the beginning of the world.
My heart beats through my arms,
And my knuckles go white from their grip.
And the sound breaks the threshold barrier enclosing my heart, sweeping up abandoned heartstrings with it, carrying them off into some place unknown.
And now, I know I have been aquatinted, by the orgasmic awakening.

463
Candles in July windows.
Reminiscent of times unknown.
Accompanied by silence abhorred.

464
Do you ever get sick thinking about your insides?

465
It must be terrifying,
Being a poet.
Having your words, thoughts, feelings,
Immortalized by the bastardization of their meaning by people who constantly search for the hidden meaning in the plainness of these letters.

466
The pressure to perform words,
Like a balancing act of finely tuned lettering,
A performance of an art.
For all eyes to see.
Yet some things are so obviously poetic in their nature that there is not possible way for me to romanticize them any further.
Like,
Sometimes wrath drips down my arms and I yell at god. I was raised in a Christian household, but I don't believe in Christianity. Yet, to my woe, it's still imprinted there. In my thoughts. My nature. My biases that I need to unlearn.
I get mad.
And I yell.
In my head of course.
And I cry out,
Don't you see this?
All this pain you're letting me and my people go through?
Do you hear their cries too?
Do you listen?
I want to switch places.
For once let god be the one experiencing the punishment they so carelessly throw onto their citizens.
And for once let me be the one with not a worry in the world. Let me be the one safe, happy, healthy. Let me be the one who doesn't have to worry about choosing between whether they want a roof over their head or to be themselves.
For once let god feel the pain I have felt, and that every person who came before me has felt as a trans person on Earth. Let them feel the collective pain we experience.
Finally, let him bear the load we carry as mortal humans.
And then maybe I'll get them to understand.

467
God must look at my pain and say,
Oh, that's so poetic.

468
I write sleepy nighttime poetry,
Ones laced with sweet milkweed and stardew,
Tiny drinks mixed with morning raindrops slipped from blades of grass toppling over, all in a little acorn shell cup.
I write sleepy nighttime poetry, with a cup by my side, and heavy warm blankets wrapped around me.

469
I write sober daytime pains,
Sunlight dragging down my back,
Leaving streaks of redness where she had graced me.
I love her.
But she is so painful.
And I am so tired.

470
I peel off this mask,
And you scoff,
In laughter,
A big hearty hah!
You are not that?
"I know you." You smirk. With your big teethy wolf like grin.
I know you much more than you know yourself.
I know you more than the sun and moon know you. More than the celestial beings whom raised you know you. I know you more than the ones watching down upon you and your every waking and sleeping moment know you.
I know you more than god knows you.