My chrysalis was not one of silk and thread – a sensory deprivation chamber within which I was immune to sticks and stones; rather, it...

Let me tell you the real story: Venus was not born of the sea – did not ascend, instantly divine. It has all been a lie. Venus did not...

Strangers cannot help but stare, as if your forehead is branded. Mothers shield their children, lower their eyes, double-check the...

I wish you would stop finding me here - people may say we’re in love. But I’m not your police scanner, your News Channel 10, or your...

My body would make an exquisite corpse; the people I have loved all chip away at me, slicing me with slurs, molding me with hands I don’t...

I feel like I’m looking at a portrait when I look in the mirror, with no connection, no loyalty to that reversed image. I become a critic...

Is your body you, or are you your body? I struggle with this question whenever I examine my reflection and the physical aftermath of the...

It’s a boy, the nurse declares, indicating the pixelated penis, the sonogram blurry as a Rorschach’s. They see what they want, draw their...

I recently came across this absolutely incredible poem on www.wildgender.com, in the Queer Poetics section, which was apparently borrowed...