If God Gave A Fuck About Trans People They Would’ve Made Us Crabs
or some other creature with transient body —
often I look in the mirror and think, I want
this self to live on, but not with me inside,
a donation cusping the crest of a tiny wave
that may display it for a test-run. I admit,
I like my birth name, catchy for somebody else
to take. My figure is a pretty thing to waste.
The gender therapist descriptions talk about
finding who you really are even though
I think I’m a few different people. I email them
anyway. The fun part about OCD and transness:
you can’t control what the hormones would change.
If I could leave my titties on the side of a beach
for some beautiful woman in need to discover
I think we’d be more of a Boldface Community.
Just saying. I don’t think God is taking notes
but it would be cool if they were. I want a lineup
of striped shells. I want to shout into each
and pick the best echo, like the voice
wailing a tune that makes me cry
in front of the Uber driver. I don’t trust
whatever deity runs the face apps.
I keep busy so a therapist can’t disappoint me.
I don’t just want to have my body changed.
I want to leave this for somebody else to find.
Myles Taylor (they/them) is a transmasculine poet, organizer, award-winning poetry slam competitor, barista, Emerson College alum, Capricorn-Aquarius cusp, and glitter enthusiast. They run Moonlighting: A Queer Open Mic and host at the Boston Poetry Slam. Their work can be found in The Shallow Ends, Academy of American Poets, Washington Square Review, Underblong, Crab Fat Magazine, Slamfind, and others. Follow them @mylesdoespoems.