HEARTBREAK IS LIKE A METEOR
Before you I was like the earth
after the dinosaurs –
frozen and harsh and
covered in dead animals
(that we burn in our cars
isn’t that depressing – our cars
run on dead dinosaurs).
How does anyone live before knowing love –
all a great empty
universe that suddenly fills with life
and then you can’t live
without this person. You’d die
without them. I have lived this way.
Even if only once
and never again – So be it.
At least I loved.
IT’S JUST A FLESH WOUND
I think I have a head wound.
It’s the same head wound
all trans people have.
It aches a little whenever
you get misgendered.
It bleeds when you lose a job
or get evicted,
or get arrested.
It throbs when someone calls you
by your dead name.
And by throbs I mean it’s a migraine.
I AM THE NEXT DEAD TRANS PERSON
This is a protest.
I’m not getting out of bed
until we stop killing trans women of color.
This is a protest.
I’m getting out of bed, but I’m not going to work
until we stop killing trans women of color.
This is a protest.
I’m going to work, but I’m not putting up with cis people
until we stop killing trans women of color.
This is a protest.
I’ll put up with cis people, but I will not apologize for my existence.
Please stop killing trans women of color.
This is a protest.
I’m sorry, the number you dialed is not in service.
Yani Robinson is a trans writer and community organizer currently studying creative writing at UW. His favorite contemporary poets include Tracy K. Smith, Joe Wenderoth, and Randall Mann. His first language is Thai, his mother is a Thai immigrant, and he identifies much like a kathoey—living his gender through performance.
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