Introduction

About five months ago I decided to go to an open mic poetry night at a grimy wine bar in Jacksonville's arts district. To be totally honest, I don't even remember why I decided to go. I didn't really write poetry, and what I had written was too melodic to be performed alongside slam poets and indie rappers. So I bought a little black notebook at Dollar Tree and started filling it with my bullshit, after not having written open-form poetry in a decade.

I've become decent. It's a fun hobby and a good way to use material I can't otherwise use. I do not currently attend any other official poetry meetups in the city.

Some of these poems are raw. I'm not a fan of overediting. I've removed a few cheeky things that could have sent people to jail (even if they do deserve it), and I've fixed my format so it makes sense. But that's about it.

This is (mostly) a true story.

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Schizo

I hear shit.

And that’s not the beginning, nor is it the end of it

My brain is split, spitting out phrases

Like Uno cards

Or a bad case of tourettes

And it’s fucking lame

Because every day I wake up the same way

With a pistol to my brain

Or a blade to my veins

But never really

It’s not real

I’m just

Insane

And there’s ways to cope

Staying bound, hanged, or doped up

Pick one

And you’ll never again look

At a rope or a loaded gun quite the same

I see high ceilings

Disassociate

And panic as words become feelings

And I see myself outside my body

Looking up at the other me

My brain is reeling but on the outside

My face is mimicking normal human behavior

I don’t need a fucking savior

Because, maybe I AM Jesus

Maybe I can free this

Little, loud crowd of people and demons

Poltergeists with pthisis

Coughing up blood

Guts

Empyesis

Into the wall of sound

That is the din I hear when I get around to waking up

And sometimes, my eye twitches

And it’ll see every bitch move I could make

No give, no stay, no take

Just unfiltered vomit

Proving to me that my whole life was a mistake

I hear shit.

Be it noise, words, or just

Screaming, a footstep, a loud bang

Two people banging, me choking as I’m hanging

My windpipe crushed, pots and pans clanging

My memories ganging up on me saying

“Do it, you won’t”

And don’t

Think for one goddamn

Fraction of a second

That I haven’t sat and reckoned

“Well, it was fun and all at the checkin

But this show fucking sucks

So maybe it’s time to cash these checks in

Call it a night and check out”

I hear shit.

If my internal voice is just a loud, nearby sound

Then maybe there’s nothing wrong

But I hear my mother

A scream

A bomb, that same crowd

A song

These words as I put them on paper

Are influenced by another

Phrase heard

Literally just the words “I hear shit”

As if my psychosis thinks it’s funny

Draining me of my will to be

And eventually money when it tells me

“Treat ya fuckin self”

And you think that’s hilarious

But the savings I’ve drained

Could have paid for a new brain

I’ll admit I have it better than some

I’m still able to distinguish between sounds

And render myself dumb

But there’s still that annoying tic I have

Where I cover up part of my face

When I imagine something particularly

Disgraceful

Or in bad taste

So I can ignore it

Assimilate

Obey my rational brain

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Lobster Boy

The worst part about my body is that I don't want to be in it

I've crossed rivers of self-doubt
Seas of introspection
Therapists deep as kiddie pools
And come to the conclusion--

Correction

--Manifestation
Of my rebirth

Sure I've panicked
It's all real now

I'll soon shed my shell and crawl along
The ocean floor until I find
A safe rock to reincarnate behind
Soon to be vulnerable

This shell, my mask of many years
Squeezing me into fear
Tight enough to tear at pink flesh
Tight enough to tear at fresh
Wounds, tight enough to render claws useless
Footprints tiny
Chest made of bruises
But it's a solid excuse
A claustrophobic exoskeleton
Harboring a meat prison to be
Stolen and buried alive
Just 110 pounds of white meat

Cracking glass
Metamorphosis
Won't render me immortal

The worst part about my body
Is the anger
Rage that can't yet be blamed on testosterone
Or sexism or any other thing
I sign a dead name to when I promise I know
The risks of my transition
The transmission of DNA to DNA
Not to change, or rearrange
But rename
And there's pain here
Because as tight as this shell is
It's a wonder it took me this long

It's wrong.

The worst part about my body
Is explanations
Expectations
Re-re-re-re-introductions
To bigots, belittlers, and the occasional Southern Baptist
Until the bough breaks
Shell and voice crack
And the old flesh is shattered for good

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Four Years

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Trapdoor

Mx. Tracy Alexiander

Trapdoor

Introduction

Schizo

Lobster Boy

Four Years

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