Ellie's Poetry

Iĝanta, aŭ, Meditado sur la Vivo de Juna Transseksulo

Mi ankoraŭ estas iĝanta

Mi malvolvis la kaĝo el drato ke mordis mian infanaĝan haŭton,

Derompantis miajn bebadentojn sur la pikdrato ekstere de la pordo de mia patro.

Kaj la krustoj ankoraŭ jukas; ili estas freŝaj, senresanigaj, kaj doloraj

Ĉar mi ankoraŭ estas iĝanta

Kaj mi malamas ĝin; stranga kiel tio estas por mi:

Esti transseksulo kiu malamas transirojn.

Mi malakceptas ĉion, kion mi iam sciis, por rekonstrui ĝin el nenio

Kiam ĉio, kion mi iam deziris, estis hejmon, kiu povus elteni tra la ŝtormojn

Sed ne estas truoj en la gipsoplanko

Miaj fingroartikoj ne plu estas kontuzitaj

Kaj ĉe noktoj kiam mi draŝas, kiam mi batas kontraŭ mia haŭto 

kaj makulas mian animon kun profana kolerego

Mia kara amanto tenas miajn manojn

Mi ne sufiĉas por rin

Sed mi pliiĝantas

Kaj, malsaĝa profetaĵo kiel ĝi povus esti, ri kredas ke la virino kiu mi iĝos

Valoras la maliĝadon kiun mi devis elteni

Kaj iam, mia iĝanto estos

Baby Blue

O, little girl, you wanted a softer blue

Given a choice, we both know what you'd choose

Come, hold my hand, tell me what you know

Show me the art you make, and I'll show you mine, too

O, little girl, I know it's more than clay

As you send it to the kiln, in darker blue it's stained

There, with your hands, you formed it and shaped

Did what you thought was right, and locked yourself away

O, little girl, you'll know this day forever

Little, blue-glazed pot, dark, like a brother

But now, on your hands, painted by a lover

Your nails are baby blue, soft, like a mother

O! Mother!

O, Mother! I am reaching out to you

To take your broken heart in my hands

and your broken hands in my heart

O, Mother! I live a life you hardly knew

Untitled

I cling to my God with vicious hands

Looking for my sinistrous savior's undying lands

When drinking his blood feels drunken and vain,

How can I trust that he has any claim?

Consume me from the inside; eat my heart whole

Bestow on me the curse of a bare human soul

Speak to me like Moses, but from a burning Church

Lead me to Satan, and show me his worth

Song to be Found

Met you on the weekend

and gave you my t-shirt

the only thing I had that you could take

Away down the dirt road

counting out the corn fields

try not to think about you by the lake

If you could believe me

I'd tell you I still dream

and the memory of you makes me shake

But I got to find you

if for just a few days

and maybe you'll find me again someday...

Song of Self, or Spread-Eagle

Here's the thing

—when you find me, spread-eagle on our coital bed, hands wandering my open legs—

It's not that I need this. 'Need' is a paltry word for the desire that courses through me as I find myself;

It cannot capture the allure of the friction between our warm bodies

All hands and mouths and little whispers

To know you is to know myself;

When your hands tangle in my girlishly-short hair,

When you give that little tug

—not enough to hurt, nor even enough to pull my head back to expose the soft skin of my throat—

I am wholly present in these holy moments

Love Under the Boot

I think what people don't get about it—

Love under the boot—

is that we know it will crush us

But who cares?

I built us a garden and

you brought the seeds and

she pulled the weeds and

they pulled tomatoes fat from the vine and

he's playing music and

THE SKY IS CRASHING DOWN

But I'm here with my friends and

We're not alone anymore

Untitled

I am the daughter that will not forgive

My father.

Not because I lack desire,

But I have wounds that won't close;

Scars that won't heal;

The mark of his boot on the side of my face

Which he put there so I'd match him

Because he couldn't be hurt without hurting

And I was small enough