under the socks i have stuffed it into, the knife
sits, obvious in its silence, like my lover’s cock
under her tights, and the TSA agent, gloved
hands and careful rifle, rolls her eyes when i
try to explain. sometimes, when i’m in public
with people i love, i wonder what we look like.
soft boys/ugly girls/faces unbruised until the
cis man’s hands panic and suddenly we just
look like headlines. months ago, i took all the
knives out of my pockets and my girl and i
gulped each other until her roommates
banged on the bathroom door, begged us
to unsheath somewhere else– wincing
her cock towards my mouth, she asked
my body to answer her’s in a language
we invent each time we scramble
out of our old skins– an added week of
estrogen/each stitch i accidentally scratch
out of my masectomied chest. now, in
the airplane bathroom, my chest-scars
glow bloody and blue. i spread my thighs
and drool for a blurry cell-phone photo i will
send my partner when we land. everyone
i love wants to know why i didn’t feel safe
enough surrounded by someone else’s
weapons to leave my own behind. why risk
my white privilege being drowned out
by my trans-body. because i am taking
nudes in the sky, in a gender neutral bathroom
big enough to coffin me according to
the government’s safety standards.
maybe if i am killed, this is the photo
my funeral will PowerPoint grotesquely.
look, here is a bathroom i pissed and
cried in and did not have to wait until i was
alone to emerge and wash my hands.