I date girls, I have a dick. Sometimes, I take estrogen. I have slathered thick globs of testosterone gel across my skin. I've worn duct tape to cinch my dick against my asshole. I've spent ages shaving my entire body. It hurts less and works worse than ripping your pubes out with duct tape. I wear thick foundation to hide my skin. I wear dark purple eyeshadow winged out to my temples. I scare people. I seduce them. I fall in love. I write love poems and imagine that I am Petrarch, Romeo, Matty Healy, Robert Smith. I am problematic. I have immunity. You could hear me speak and confuse me for Lana Del Rey. That's how thick my accent is, my vocal fry. Men scoff at me when I hold doors open for them. They have always looked at me strangely in their bathrooms. People never shut up about my hair. It grows up and out like an untrimmed bush. It gets me bad bitches. It makes me want to die. Women smile at me in the Ladies room. Sometimes, they apologize. The old ladies in Point Loma ask for me with the word "him". My grandparents are confused. The Woman at the 24 Hour Donut place, my favorite stranger, calls me mija. I think it is here that I begin hallucinating, though everything feels surreal to me. A goth girl in the parking lot cracks open her car door and calls me beautiful. She might be the most beautiful woman I have ever imagined. She has the jaw of Michelangelo's David and the claws of a hot-cheeto girl. She is thicker than all your waifus. She’s a real Latina baddie. One day, she will teach me about Gloria Anzaldua, Sor Juana. She’s working on her MA thesis. She's the smarter, prettier, more perfect version of me. She's wifey material. She has the raspy voice of an influencer and I fall in love. We stare at each other for a while and I imagine the million lives that I would live for her. I’d wear demonias just for you, I’d pretend to love Bella Lugosi's Dead until our engagement. Yes, I want to bless the last human generations with our jawlines. I am questionably feminist. I am a misandrist. I wear Reeboks and hate Bauhaus. I'm a poser. I have no game. I walk away. I text the enby I know I want to break up with and then hit up their best friend. I redownload grindr. I stalk her on instagram. I get catcalled on my way to work. It lets me know I'm safe that day. I live in fear. Constant, crippling anxiety and fear. Above all, I'm scared of seeming like a little bitch. I go to the hardware store and get the biggest chain I can find. I wear it around my neck. Just to seem tough. I go clubbing and let it leave bruises. I pretend they're hickeys. I fuck up and lose all the bad bitches. I get called homie hopper. I get called many things, constantly. And I regret not talking to the goth girl. Men walk up to me in the Gaslamp and tell me they like my chain. I say nothing. I blink, I masquerade as an idiot. I learned this from the Italian woman I'm in love with. Girls swoon when they hear me read the poems I wrote about her. She hasn't responded to my messages in months. I stay home and read old books. I am an advanced reader. I clutch my copy of 120 Days of Sodom and watch Too Hot To Handle instead. I jack off. I like blondes. These are just the facts. I'm not hiding anything from you anymore. I am trying to write this with full transparency. Because you probably have all sorts of assumptions about me. Stories that people like me have told about themselves. The stories that other people like me have written critiquing those stories. The ones about high heels and stolen makeup. But I am trying to rewrite even older stories. The ones I was supposed to live out anyways. Because they're still mine. The way I kept my little league baseball glove. Even though these things don’t quite fit me anymore. I want to reimagine that first game of the season championships. When they stuck me in the outfield. A line drive flying right by me. How I leapt into the air and caught the game winning ball. I want to pretend I didn't feel it rolling slowly out my glove as I hit the ground. I want to pretend that I could really hold on to what every young boy dreams of.

poetry northwest summer & fall 2025