If you’re not willing to hold someone
for an hour while they cry
then we can’t have sex.
I’m new at crying you see.
It’s a skill I forgot.
As a little girl I cried easily.
Confused as society was
they beat that out of me.
After all, boys don’t cry.
Confused as I was
I learned not to.
I learned to shove that feeling down.
To leave it buried.
Two months into hormones
I hadn’t cried once.
Not even a glimmer.
My therapist showed me.
To move my body.
Let feel what is there.
To let things come up.
Things came up like a tidal wave.
30 years of running from this pain
crashed upon me.
I curled into a ball screaming.
But the pitch my body screams at
is not one that my vocal cords can make.
If I could make the sound
my neighbors would certainly knock.
Is everything okay? I thought you might be dying!
Yes, it’s intentional thank you.
My soul needed airing out.
She had some shit to say.
The unfelt and unexpressed
deserved better than burial.
Most of the time
I love my gender blended body.
My breasts, my cock,
my ass, my shoulders.
But dysphoria has no schedule.
Sometimes it hits like a gunshot—
Waves crash, pain nearly drowns me,
and my mind retreats to explore the
boundaries and fixtures of my man prison.
Though the world doesn’t know
because my screams are silent.
Sidra is a trans-woman who recently discovered a love of writing and performing poetry. She lives in Denver with her wife and dog.