unspoken

I wrote this poem during a recent stay in residential treatment. It came out of a hard day — a nightmare that woke my roommate, a song in music group that cracked something open, and an afternoon alone with a notebook and a pen.

I've spent most of my career holding space for other people's hardest truths. Writing poetry turned out to be how I learned to hold my own.

I share this here because it felt true.

unspoken

you don't know
but
my heart is broken
a plate cracked through and
through
two parts clanged
into the recycling bin
you don't know
how it feels
to hold your baby
between the sweat of childbirth and
twenty-three-year-old perspiration
trembling
full
a performance
of the trans body
while I force
mine into a smaller
and smaller
box
you don't know
how it feels to sit with women
who could be my daughters
watch me
cry over a strip of bacon
grease stuck to the roof
of my mouth
can't swallow
no air left in lungs
too small
to breathe
you don't know
how it feels
to aging-woman-stumble
on the way to the bathroom
stupid stupid girl
you don't know
what it is to cry
over penne and peas
and
you don't know how it feels
when November looms
maybe a new diagnosis
will be my 50th
birthday
gift
you don't know
I wrote a book about
all of this.
already lived
all of this.
already did
all of this.
will you hold the broken plate
before we throw it away
will you cup your palms to catch
what spills
from that
clean
crack
can you
will you
do you have enough hands?

More writing coming soon.