the trans grief poem that gets you to care

isn’t worth shit to me / not like the girls who left us / the sun

draining out of their cams & into mine / the sound the needle makes

when it leaves me / the packed suitcase bố mẹ taught me to keep ready /

i’ve only made room for 3 cigarettes in my days in this city / to share 

with              &         &          / held together by the girls i hold

together / i want to call          back tomorrow & tell her that i lived

longer than i ever have / that the body is not a revolution / that i woke

to a cage of my own making / & another kind of rent to pay on the body 

/ & i wish i could be forgiven for ever calling this resistance / i'm wasting

my words again / fuck a trans grief poem i want to write my sisters

letters / body-paint my shadow the same shades as their eyes /

so they can find me invisible / take my hands / start again all over

iris nguyễn (she/they/chị/em) is a poet living in New Jersey. She found a loose thread on her body and hasn't stopped pulling since.