EVERY DAY MORE OF THE PEOPLE I LOVE TELL ME THEY DON’T KNOW HOW TO KEEP STAYING ALIVE.
I TELL THEM THAT IT IS POSSIBLE.
SOMETIMES IT IS KINDEST TO LIE TO THE PEOPLE YOU LOVE.
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I PLAY PRETEND WITH THE PEOPLE I LOVE. WE SIT IN A CIRCLE AND CAST A SPELL CALLED A HOPE.
THE HOPE SAYS “ONE DAY THE SUN WILL SET FOREVER AND IT WILL BE QUIET.”
THE HOPE SAYS “ONE DAY WE WILL RUN OUT OF TEARS AND OUR EYES WILL DRY UP AND FALL OUT OF OUR HEADS AND WE WILL NEVER CRY AGAIN.”
THE HOPE SAYS “ONE DAY WE WILL BE ALLOWED TO EXIST.”
THE CIRCLE DISSOLVES AND THE HOPE BREAKS LIKE A VOICE THAT IS BEGGING POINTLESSLY.
SOMEWHERE THERE IS A WORLD THAT WILL HEAR OUR HOPE AND IT WILL BE REAL IN A KIND OF WAY.
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MY BELOVED ASKS IF SHE CAN BE THE DOLL TODAY. I SAY OK. SHE CLATTERS TO THE FLOOR. THESE ARE THE KIND OF FANTASIES WE CAN AFFORD.
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LISTEN TO ME: THIS WORLD HAS A TONGUE PINK AS THE DAWN AND TEETH WHITE AS THE FACE OF A MURDERER. LISTEN TO ME: EVERY DAY MY PEOPLE MARCH UP AND DOWN THE CASTLE WALLS BEGGING NOT TO BE KILLED.
LISTEN TO ME: THE MOST HOLY DAY OF OUR CALENDAR IS THE DAY WE READ OFF THE LIST OF NAMES.
THE DAY WE NAME THE PEOPLE WHO CAN NO LONGER NAME THEMSELVES.
LISTEN TO ME: THE MOST HOLY DAY OF THE TRANSSEXUAL CALENDAR IS A MASS FUNERAL.
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I HOPE THAT ONE DAY I CAN BE A PERSON. I HOPE THAT ONE DAY THE STARS BLINK OUT OF EXISTENCE AND DROWN THE WHOLE WORLD IN LUSCIOUS BLACKNESS AND NO SHAPE WILL EVER MATTER AGAIN. I HOPE THE SEAS RISE AND THE SKY SPLINTERS AND THE LAND ITSELF RUMBLES WITH HATRED AND ONE BY ONE EVERY REAL HUMAN WHO MADE THE WORLD THIS WAY IS MADE MORTAL LIKE THE REST OF US.
I HOPE ONE DAY I CAN SEND THE PEOPLE I LOVE HOME AND NOT KEEP CHECKING THE NEWS WHEN THEY DON’T ANSWER THEIR TEXTS.
I HOPE THAT WHEN WE ARE GONE YOU WILL MISS US AND I HOPE THAT WHILE WE ARE HERE YOU WILL CALL US BY OUR NAMES AND I HOPE THAT WHEN WE HAVE BEEN LED DOWN THE LONG ROAD TO HELL YOU WILL REMEMBER THAT WE WEPT THE WHOLE WAY DOWN.
[originally at https://beestungmag.com/issue18/two-poems-by-nora-hikari/]
