The Door

Once, at the edge of a moment,
I stood, afraid, confused, excited
And waited, from sunset to month to year
Always there, but never here
The drum went on and on.

***
I remember when the Halloween catalogs came, as a child
The thrill, the excitement
Finding the perfect one
Which was never for me; I knew better than to ask

***
Falling, I stopped to catch myself, but slipped
And there, in front of me, I found something
New—a taste, succulent, unfamiliar
Rich, explosive, I trembled;
Hope.

***
I tried to kill myself once. Or maybe twice.
I tried to drown in a bathtub
And ran a knife across my wrists
My tears were because it was too dull

***
But if this was me, the one with hope,
Did that come with despair?
Was it the possibility of joy
That dredged up the ultimate moment

***
Did it matter?
In the hospital, I learned to breathe
To sleep
To smile again

***
I wondered, was it a dream?
Was it real life?
Did it matter?
Fear remained

***
People call me brave
I hate it.
For being me?
It took no courage to be trans.

***
Fresh air.
Tasted for the first time
Since I was free
Yet hollow—I missed the home I had made.

***
The hospital was relief
Freed from the world
From my past
And liberty—to do nothing, to do anything
To paint, and draw, and read
Yet fleeting, the faces fade, and memory turns

And still, I survive. And maybe live.


Emma C.
emmajane[AT]uchicago.edu
Chicago

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