The Hell With Sonnets, They Don’t Make Anything Better

I don’t feel better in make up
I don’t feel better without makeup
or in my new summer dress
or Mary Jane flats
or my first bra.
I don’t feel better when complemented
on my hair or eyes or if you call me Ellee.
I love you for it.
But it doesn’t make me feel any better.
Or worse. Because goddamn it,
this is not my body. It never was
and never will be. Because goddamn it, I’m invisible.
I have to imagine my form. But I love you
for your kindnesses, your willingness
to imagine with me. You are why
I am not dead.
But it will make nothing any better. Nothing. No
“this is my sister” or “this is my girlfriend”
no ornamentation, no honest or white-lying flattery,
will make anything better.
Nothing I can imagine now, hope or pray for now
will make this farce any better.


8 thoughts on “The Hell With Sonnets, They Don’t Make Anything Better

      1. Like my habit of writing down the Heidi as Prey events as stories where I win and the predators suffer. That’s pretty healing


  1. Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell–pen names for those Brontë sisters, presenting their novels behind male names. Maybe the veil of your body is like a pen name, thinly covering your true self for now. But light shines through. Shine on.


    1. I’ve thought about pen names. But decided against them. The most difficult thing about being who I am is the nagging feeling that I am two things. Well, I’m not two things.

      I’m going to be me regardless of my own second guessing. I bought a shirt, in fact, at the Pride Festival, that reads “This is what trans looks like” I say to myself, claim it, tame it, and then get rid of the term and just be me.


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