This is not poetry, I swear it.

You stare at a purple sweater behind glass.
It is surrounded by the winter-grey of trees.
You stare for so long.

I take every corner like a dance floor.
Volume is up to 20 and I can’t stop moving.
Can’t stop moving.
Can’t stop moving.
Bopbopbop.
Waiting for the blinking white walker to let me gogogo.
I sing along with my lips, but not my voice.
Shaking my head like I am shoeing away a bee.
My hair smells like my Aunt Wanda did when I was little,
when she
was one who beautifies others.
I used to think she was so shiny.

He drops his blue hat
in the middle of the street.
I pick it up and run after him,
even though I am a scavenger
by nature. And my nature tells me to keep it.

My reflection surprises me again.

Can’t stop moving.
Can’t stop moving.
Can’t stop moving.

Posted by tina at 3:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The mix on my mp3 player is particularly good this week. I didn’t think about it much, but it suits me so well right now that I have begun to believe in fate again.

The great smallening continues. More rapidly now. Faster and faster, I am shrinking. This morning the scale said 249. I have lost 40 pounds and 4 pants sizes. My new body refuses to grieve for what it has lost. All of my old clothes make me sick. They hang there in the closet, huge and sad. My acceptance of my gender is in full force… I want to be pretty and pretty and pretty again.

::: And I’m screaming at the top of my lugs, pretending the echos are from someone, someone I used to know.:::

Everyone must be sick of talking to me about this. Baa Baa Baa Baa. But I am just getting started. You will have to listen forever because this is far from over.

Someone nice emailed me to thank me for being rad, for being helpful to her. I couldn’t imagine living my old life. I couldn’t imagine not being helpful. I couldn’t imagine not caring about people.

I sound crazy and my mix tape affirms it. The Smiths are my new Belle and Sebastian and I know that is totally whacked. If you are reading this, think about listening to the Postal Service CD… or maybe The Smiths.

:::everything will change:::

Try not to catch cold because November is too perfect a month to be sick in.

Posted by tina at 3:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)