The Matter of The Chest

This week, I’ve got a poem for you and an exciting announcement – this poem was published in Issue I of These Writers’ Voices, ‘The Silence’, yesterday, which you can check out for free right here! If you’d like to just read this poem, I’ve included it below for you. This is a pretty personal one that covers three different stages in my journey of having top surgery, so I really hope you enjoy it!

The Matter of The Chest A Summary Of Two Round Decades Of Discontent

There are holes in my chest
and they are weeping,
leaking transparent tears
onto blisters, biting flesh
that only wishes to be hidden:
this is the price, paid in cells
ripped from epidermis –

call it madness to engage
in a daily ritual, knowing
the result is red and raw and ruthless,
and so miserable that even it
cries clear tears at night.

A Snapshot Of The Quaking Moments Prior To Relief

Time mimics my heartbeat,
hanging on the wall, thrumming
like a ridiculing parrot, sending
vibrations through the inked pages
intended to distract me. They do not.

I will die here. I will not. Yet I might.
Who is to say, in this sanitised crypt,
that I have not already gone? Did I blink,
disappear, forget, and return? Is this…
what do you call it? Purgatory?

Maybe I am mistaking my heartbeat
for a death rattle. There is a knock—
the heart stops, the clock continues.

‘The team are ready for you now.’

A Realisation Of Joy, After The Fact

It is the second car journey,
not the first. My brain echoes
itself, softly, until I understand
the words: now I know what it is,
this trans joy. Now I know.

A glimmer of a tear trembles,
not quite overflowing. Yes,
now I understand. Lightness,
held together by scabbing lifelines,
causes the motorway greenery to glow.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

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