I Breathe Fire
I spent my childhood practicing girlhood,
wearing dresses that flowed around my ankles,
and stuffing myself full of honey,
until my tongue was sickly sweet,
filled with sugar, spice, and everything nice.
Now, I smear boyhood onto my shoulders,
rub daily and wait for it to dry,
and when I walk home late at night,
I look for war in every corner,
my hands in fists as I look every man in the eyes,
daring him to call me baby or sweetheart,
dreaming of the feeling of flesh hitting flesh,
of the skin on my knuckles splitting open from force,
the deep baritone of my throat, a warcry.
I hold a dictionary in my head,
of what words mean now, this side of man,
now masculinity means She’s just being a bitch,
strong means Get the fuck away from me,
and man means angry.
I hold wrath in my hands,
its heat scorches my palms,
I swallow it whole,
feel the cinders start to catch in my lungs,
smoke clinging to my tongue,
I spit out the taste of honey,
watch as a wildfire burns its way,
through my chest, up my throat,
and I learn how to breathe fire.
I burn everyone around me,
I become the beast guarding the castle,
I become undefeatable, insurmountable,
and alone.
There is no princess in this poem,
but there is a boy who remembers,
bible study spent in church basements,
spinning with the other girls,
watching as his dress flares around him in an arc,
the feeling of magic and wind around his ankles.
But I know what happens to boys who wear dresses,
I know where they go when they disappear,
I hear them sometimes whispering my name,
their voices scare me and
I pretend only to hear the crackling of flames,
there are so many reasons to blaze.
I see the way they want us all to disappear,
want trans to be a dirty word that children whisper
to each other on the playground,
forcing boys into girlskins that are not their own,
taking away the hormones that gave us back our glow.
I breath fire,
I burn everything and laugh at the flames,
I laugh even though I am burning too.
Fire is not sustainable,
it consumes and eats and burns
until the war is over,
but it keeps fighting, keeps burning,
and burning,
until it burns itself out,
and there is nothing left,
but ash and bone and a boy,
standing in front of a dress,
he is too afraid to put on.
Choke
I want to write about leaves changing color
as they spill onto the ground,
of blues and purples forming like bruises underneath snow banks
as flowers begin to bloom,
but I am so tired of pirouetting perfection,
of dissecting everything I said the night before,
looking for flaws
because I’m afraid they will see venom that lurks within me,
see the rawness and of course the Hunger,
so I smile at men on the subway when they call me baby,
and even answer to a name that is no longer mine.
I hate that in life there are no stories,
no beginnings or endings, only middles,
the first time I said the word Jude it was only a lyric,
I want to say it sounded like a name that already belonged to me,
I want to say I always knew I was making my way,
becoming him, becoming me,
but life was a tune on the radio I sang along to without really listening,
and Jude was only the name of a song until I made it mine.
They say first born sons inherit their father’s anger,
but I inherited his silence.
I want to write poems of roses blooming,
petals forming as their buds open up,
seeking the warm glow of the morning sun,
but when I put pen to paper,
I can only think of their thorns.
The problem with thorns is they’ll prick anyone,
and I don’t want to hurt anyone,
so I let them pierce my tongue,
and let the words flow like blood:
No, I’m fine,
You can still call me she,
I’ll always be your daughter.
More and more the thorns start to choke me,
I let it happen, I give into my birthright,
let my words falter, let my voice go unheard.
My parents call out the name of a dead girl,
my friends call me she when they’re not thinking,
she is haunting me in the curve of my hips and the cracks of my voice,
her slender hands curled around my throat,
as long as her name is in the room, I will never be free.
I dream of mouths opening, moving around the vowels of her name,
I dream of roses sharp with thorns, creeping down through their vulnerable wet throats,
I dream of choking, choking, choking.
Jude Achilles Misick is a writer and poet based in Brooklyn. He holds an MFA in fiction from Columbia University. His work has been published in “Some Kind of Opening,” “The Exquisites Chapbook Volume 1,” and “Dumbo Press.”
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