They'd begun wearing their glasses at night in fifth grade, after the nightmare happened the first time. That's how it started. The glasses. They could never quite articulate why they needed to wear their glasses at night, only knew that they had to in order to keep the nightmares away.

And that worked. For about a month.

Then they had to take their glasses off during the day. Obviously that was the problem. The glasses had to be worn at night, and only at night. They were sacred. Magic. Obviously.

Of course, that made school hard. Even sitting at the front of the room they found themself squinting to see the board. Their handwriting became nearly illegible.

But it worked.

For about a month.

They had to shave their head.

They had to sleep without a pillow.

They could no longer sleep in their bed.

All of these things worked.

For about a month.

And then they had to find some new trick, some new ritual, to keep the nightmares away. The nightmares that reminded them of a past they'd rather forget. They didn't want to think about their birth mom. They didn't want to think about the girl they used to be before they transitioned. They didn't want to remember the violent end to their innocence. They didn't want to remember the year in foster care before they found their permanent guardians. They didn't want to remember the struggle to get their legal name changed, to start HRT as a minor. They didn't want to remember who they were. But the nightmare kept toppling that, kept reminding them, and they needed it to go away.

They went to therapy.

And that worked.

For longer than a month.

my writing could be

described as

a hot girl at a party

no one has ever told her

she is annoying

or untalented

her ego unchecked

so she cozies up to

some poor party-goer

and talks forever

about her pretty nothings

until he makes some excuse

to leave the scene

leading her to believe

she is merely unknown

when she’s just drunk

calling herself misunderstood

intoxicated on fumes

and bad poems

seaweed in my mouth

like dry lips

i'm not what it's meant;

illusion.

birdbath heartbeat, all

nervous. obscene.

as if eyelashes could cure

the taste of salt on my

gooseflesh

rippled and greedy and dry

like seawater,

mermaid-hair noose,

tugging at me all my life,

one foot in the sea.

one foot in the sea,

eyes on

passing clouds.

maybe it’s too late

to buy a card

like treating me

with respect

it‘s too much effort

they say

forgive and forget

but Hallmark doesn’t make

greeting cards like that

A baby blue sky

A pink shirt and tie.

Mint green tea.

Lavender morning breeze.

A peach pile of pancakes,

On mauve, a pale purple plate.

My pastel colors start my day.

I'll grab my periwinkle jacket and be on my way.

“we accept the love

we think we deserve”

a line from The Perks

of Being a Wallflower

which I quote to myself

at In N Out

buying it all animal style

which you would know

the meaning of

if you understood

your own worth

a side of fries

for every time

you didn't feel

your own love heard

The rain poured down the windows. I stared out at the muddy yard. It had been raining for two weeks straight. The flowers were wilted and the tree branches droop.

I sighed, and murmured, "Oh, John! I miss you so much! When will you come back to me?"

A single tear ran down my cheek, and I brushed it away with the back of my hand.

"The world," I whispered, "Is hopeless! If this goes on, I may cast myself off of a cliff, to perish."

Drawing my shawl closer around my shoulders, I placed my palms against the cool, wet glass of the window.

"John? Will you ever return to me?" I exclaimed softly, "I love you, John! I was wrong! I shouldn't have said those wicked, wicked things!"

A few more tears coursed down my cheeks. My lip quivered as my unseeing eyes stared out at the rain. Suddenly, desperation set in:

"JOHN!!!" I screamed wildly, "COME BACK!"

The door behind me opened slowly, and a girl's young face appeared.

"Anna? Why are you yelling? Mom wants you to wash the dishes after you finish your homework."

I flung of the shawl in a hurry and complained with a frown, "Tracy! You interrupted me!"

"Yeah? Whatever. Who's John?"

"He's my lover, and he has left me."

Tracy's eyebrows shot up as she stared at me.

"Okay...anyway, Mom wants you to do the dishes."

As Tracy closed the door she finished with, "Maybe you shouldn't read so many romance novels..."

"Ugh," I said grumpily, as I dropped onto my bed, "What else is there to do with all this rain, anyway?"

Some nights I want a public death. I want

to have a funeral under a fragile moon with lavender

and people who care about me but have names

I don’t care enough to ever remember. I want

my therapist to listen to my midnight playlists with me

so she knows who she’s up against. I would die for many people

because I love untransactionally. I honestly prefer soft

economies where we trade biggest intimacies.

My secret is that I would wear my bones on my sleeves

if I didn’t get disapproving looks on the streets. I’m not perfect

but I would live naked if I could. Strangers could call me

crybaby and I’d thank them for the kindness. I’m grateful

for the internet because no one else understands me.

I tell all of this over the phone to Madison, who doesn’t listen

to Mitski, and that’s the difference between us;

I’m no longer ashamed of my desire.

"Men rape and brutalize each other. Equal treatment is not much of an advance."

I have dipped my toes in the cool water that is Prose. But with this comment on my post about rape, someone peed in the pool.

I imagine this person signing into their account, writing that comment, and going back out into the world feeling safe in the dark.

In the dark, I wake up. This was a fever dream. But in the light of my bedside table lamp, I look down and see my hands. They are made of stars.

I can cast over everyone what I truly believe.

I can finally say my piece.

At the end of time, all stars will die out, one by one. Ultimately, one last star will remain. It will shine the only light that is left, into the universe.

Perhaps this is my chance.

In the darkness, I sit up and grab pencil and paper. I start to write.

There are typos, edits that need to be made. I wipe away the pencil with the tears that accompanied my waking up.

I want their to be equality.

I have done it. With my pencil, I have written what the person had said in my comments, except I fixed it. I made it so we have equal treatment.

But let's go back to what they actually said.

"Equal treatment is not much of an advance."

What did this person want? Did they want anything at all to change?

I try to think. The pencil dangles in my hands. Finally, I write something down, no edits needed.

"I want there to be no more ignorance."

Maybe we can all be stars, illuminating, and not peeing, in a pool of someone else's tears.