Your Buttplug as My Band Aid
I’m crying in the Whole Foods bathroom.
Crying because my ex wants to see me,
because I’m not ready to see her yet.
I’m in love with another girl, who treats me better.
Transsexual love is a complicated subject matter.
Love for others’ trans bodies.
For what it’s worth, I tend to fuck every trans person I meet within 5-10 minutes of being alone.
What messes I have created for myself with this body.
She told me it’s not like ripping off a band-aid.
Told me it’s more like pulling out a butt plug.
Me, my ass, my pleasure, my pain, her butt plug.
My God, my God why hath thou forsaken me.
That one time in Reno, I saw this guy.
One man smoking PCP, chasing seagulls.
With no cares, no regrets, no fucks given.
“No phones, only drugs and sex and you of course”
If I can manage to quit my career,
I could get a job at a Starbucks or Best Buy and focus on poetry.
Could get fucked by my boss behind the roasting machine, or on the paper shredder.
Get bigger tits with the tips, or raise he gives me.
Would this make me hot again?
This desire to be a slut and take copious amounts of drugs.
Desire to only think about my transition,
to focus on my lost young adulthood.
We made love in her parents house,
made love on the sofa, the floor, the master bed.
Love that I’ve wrapped my limbs so tightly around.
That makes me feel something again.
Moses was a Tranny
The uber driver listed to Christian talk Radio
Then Moses went into the desert
And his cane became a snake
And God showed up as a burning bush
Was Moses on ketamine?
Was Moses a tranny?
If Jesus died for my sins
Why do I want to cut my dick off?
Shouldn’t I be forsaken
and feel whole in this body of mine.
We played truth or dare with strangers
Why did you ask me to kiss that boy?
I know you wanted to kiss me yourself
Is there something about this gender fucked body that bothers you?
Does something about a girl with a dick turn you on?
I want to ruin your makeup in a way that would make Robert Smith proud.
Then I came out of the k hole,
The lights twinkled around me as the
Trains passed in the night.
We stood on the platform
And I was doing just fine.
My asshole feels like the burning bush in the desert.
Their cock looked like a snake, twisting and climbing up Moses legs, parting them to find the
subtle ripe fruits of the garden ready to pick.
And the people flocked from all around to see the last waterfall
One of cement and clay made by man in the year of our lord 1959.
I am erosion, my body is earth. And my blood water. The tears striking down my face the rain
the doesn’t come anymore. The hairs I’ve shaved the trees that have been felled. Washed down
the drain with chemical soaps. My breasts, the mountains, my genitals deep oceans for you to
get lost in. My body is this planet, and I’ll let you ruin it as you have ruined earth.
Melanie Brydges (she/her) is a Transsexual poet based in the bay area. She has been
publishing in She is a self proclaimed slut, and drug addict, and roams the streets of San Jose as a Tranny. She things the word transgender is dumb and prefers slurs, but not from cis het people. She has been published en*gendered and is working on publishing two chapbooks. She got her start reading poetry at Nirvana Soul, in San Jose where she resides.
Angel Rust 