Time Line
1/2/12
I am judging myself.
Because I am white
and there is never enough time to tell my whole story.
To let everyone know where I came from, to where I'm going or where the fuck I am in the moment.
Do I even know?
Do people know my mother never listened and only opened her mouth
for food and to say I was no good.
Or compare me to a better blonde I was not destined to be.
That I am Mexican in my upbringing, the food, the big family, the molestation
of 6-year-old me for 4 years
choked on the silence of a tortilla in my throat.
Yes, I called him brother.
Penis in my hand that made me yearn for the comforts of sticking things in my holes--
to know who I was.
Do you love me? How much? Tell me with your fingers.
Los Angeles gives me chills in the desert fucking heat.
Still, I am here, each time, memory forgetting the heart aches I have endured.
This time it will be different. This time I will find nirvana.
Be the distillery of dissatisfied secondary nature.
But, here I am, no matter what time of year,
14-years-old at a Thanksgiving Dinner being interrogated
for being myself.
Mom says don't judge as she called herself fat.
I see the emotional noose tightening with every bite of mashed potatoes.
Pass the peas.
I'm fucking queer.
I'm transgender.
What does that mean? Aren't you my little girl?
This time, dad left for good.
I remember the last day we spoke.
He used the word nigger twice and called me “it”.
I dropped him off at his silver Santa Fe, flipped on the right turn signal and never looked back.
What he doesn't know is I made two more right's so I could look at him down the street.
The last image of my father is his slumped shoulders holding the car handle,
erasing the memory of my infant body seeping from my mother's orifice.
Maybe I should have never been born.
But,
here I am,
unable to attest to all of my wounds because I am in the midst of something called healing.
When we grow, we ache.
Ache something awful in ways which,
remind me of times
I got high off of lying, of being malicious, of telling you to your face you could trust me.
While I crossed my fingers so deep in the uterus of infidelity’s faceless female.
Me, here now, stands with a beating heart, wondering if it is telling the truth.
Am I still living for you?
~Fe(lix)
I am judging myself.
Because I am white
and there is never enough time to tell my whole story.
To let everyone know where I came from, to where I'm going or where the fuck I am in the moment.
Do I even know?
Do people know my mother never listened and only opened her mouth
for food and to say I was no good.
Or compare me to a better blonde I was not destined to be.
That I am Mexican in my upbringing, the food, the big family, the molestation
of 6-year-old me for 4 years
choked on the silence of a tortilla in my throat.
Yes, I called him brother.
Penis in my hand that made me yearn for the comforts of sticking things in my holes--
to know who I was.
Do you love me? How much? Tell me with your fingers.
Los Angeles gives me chills in the desert fucking heat.
Still, I am here, each time, memory forgetting the heart aches I have endured.
This time it will be different. This time I will find nirvana.
Be the distillery of dissatisfied secondary nature.
But, here I am, no matter what time of year,
14-years-old at a Thanksgiving Dinner being interrogated
for being myself.
Mom says don't judge as she called herself fat.
I see the emotional noose tightening with every bite of mashed potatoes.
Pass the peas.
I'm fucking queer.
I'm transgender.
What does that mean? Aren't you my little girl?
This time, dad left for good.
I remember the last day we spoke.
He used the word nigger twice and called me “it”.
I dropped him off at his silver Santa Fe, flipped on the right turn signal and never looked back.
What he doesn't know is I made two more right's so I could look at him down the street.
The last image of my father is his slumped shoulders holding the car handle,
erasing the memory of my infant body seeping from my mother's orifice.
Maybe I should have never been born.
But,
here I am,
unable to attest to all of my wounds because I am in the midst of something called healing.
When we grow, we ache.
Ache something awful in ways which,
remind me of times
I got high off of lying, of being malicious, of telling you to your face you could trust me.
While I crossed my fingers so deep in the uterus of infidelity’s faceless female.
Me, here now, stands with a beating heart, wondering if it is telling the truth.
Am I still living for you?
~Fe(lix)