this queer body is new
this queer body is new
has feet that hang off of the bed
only at night are they allowed to take up the most space
this queer body
has swam through tiny streams
while still being valid
embracing queerness is not always through a great wave
sometimes they are treading water
the only ones whose muscles ache after swim practice the same way the heart
palpitates after being misgendered
/ by your own family
/ who claims to love and support you no matter how high the tide is
/ by your coworkers because you haven’t found the strength within yourself to come out to them yet
/ they wouldn’t understand / I am afraid of coming out the same way I am afraid of walking alone at night
it is always so much work, for a want to be
recognized as queer
while still this cis exterior is the leading role
this queer body reclaims the man spread
has nails that break at a length that is perfect
has a stomach full of blood and diner coffee
has to relearn what a vegetable is
but also relearn a new identity
while still wanting to keep our childhood alive
understand that we can’t ignore the forever
doorbell that is fluidity
some days, this body feels all sunshine and daisies
waits for her lover after a long day and kisses him hello
skips through breezy prairies while
crushing white peaches between ringed fingers
the peaches are a fragile patriarchy
succumbing to a built up pressure
other days it is all black with a
matching vengeance
dragging this heavy spikeball and chain
my visible house arrest is a dysphoria
that everyone wants to touch but never take home
when will this body cease to be a public spectacle
one that can wait outside and not be barked at
but rather bloom on the first of every month
and shed a new skin in the spring
September
it is September
and everything is coming back
my birth and
many small deaths are
simultaneously eating me alive.
i don’t know which one to trust
i am grateful for my shortcomings
and wrong steps / and backpedals
they have all taught me something;
that i almost was one
i am grateful to not have been
my mother’s sixth abortion
or second child given up for adoption
not that either of those are improper
but it is September and
i am meant to be here
somehow supposed to feel every
notch and vault of forgotten youth
forgotten blows
come back at the sight of worn leather wallets
every man i know has a worn leather wallet
every time i do not use concealer
i see bruises as if they have never faded
does my father see my porcelain portrait in the reflection of his tears?
the child who knew that tearing away the bark
from a tree will not make it grow faster
i am okay with being slow in my progress
it is september and i am confronting turmoils
with a gentle knock and whisper
they will be loud if i go in screaming
they know i am afraid
it is september and i am grateful to be able to touch and expand
my aura to its greatest capacity
behind tired lashes and weights for fingertips
i stretch my arms above my head with closed eyes and my mother tells me
that i am okay
my bed a chrysalis
my body a home with no broken windows
is something really yours if you never take care of it?
this month
I am halfway healing myself towards
the version I always wanted to be
climbs down from the tree house and steps into
a book with blank pages
writes their own story,
hopefully, there are mother’s there too
Alexandra Lindberg is a 21 year old libra who lives in Boise, ID. They primarily write about newfound fluidity and heartbreak. You may find them in every coffee shop at once, or in the field of a park on a warm summer’s day. They have competed in poetry slam since February 2017 locally, regionally, and nationally.