An Autobiographical Journal by Carmyn Wilson
My Recent Thoughts
April Showers
April showers may bring flowers
So if I cry on my birthday, do I chalk it up as hurting or healing?
Chasing dreams feels like punching hurricane walls
A fireball fantasy that words of affirmation truly help a plant thrive
Preparing for a Worst-Case Scenario Anti-Trans Authoritarian Regime
A Guide for Trans & Nonbinary Americans 1. Build Community Find alliance with other queer folks, and well-vetted cis allies. Learn to distinguish danger from discomfort. Community cannot happen in an echo chamber. Be frank with cisgender people about your safety. Reimagine your role outside of capitalism — what skills can you bring to your …
Give Me Trophies When I Win
She paints a pedestal for me,
Then fumes as I step down and flee.
Your idol I refuse to be.
Moderation Smoothie
She’s and like grocery list
Or and like small-plate freedom
Her and is like another pocket on cargo pants
Broken Firework
Underneath a velvet sky
adorned with patient stars
I watch her gaze into my eyes
her soul alight with hope
She looks to me like I’m her sun
On Deadnaming Your Homies
Breaking news, your trans friend’s deadname adds nothing to a conversation. I don’t care what your trans friend used to go by. Actually, I really don’t want to know their deadname! And you shouldn’t either. But Carmyn! I’m telling a story from before they came out! I need their deadname for the story to make sense. Fuck no …
Trajectory
January one was trajectory. Flame. Combustion. Olympic energy. Short-fuse firework. Goalposts atop mountains. Testosterone sweat on broken-in running shoes. Spring brought sunrise. A new name. A do it anyway attitude. I was avoiding mirrors and typing memoirs into the Google search bar. By May, I was dripping blood. Gut half open, left hand inside, weeding any rules …
Mouse Under Moonlight
The road to his place was always dark
Subtle enough that I’d slam from 80 to reverse
when I saw his house aglow in the rear
I’d roll up with the sound of upset gears
Buttercream
She slides her index finger knuckle deep and twirls it around
It emerges, enveloped in a scrumptious coat of buttercream
She daringly brings the sugar to my mouth
I squirm as her frosting-tipped finger pushes past my lips