CP Cis Trans Male Erotica



A Poem to My Mother

By Anonymous

(To read this poem in a PDF file click here)

We named you Caitlin, you said.
After the poet’s wife.
I didn’t know who Dylan Thomas was.
I knew I didn’t want to be anybody’s wife.
Barbie is a model citizen.
Blond and busty with inaccessible genitals.
You bought me one.
I pulled off her limbs and buried them under the sofa.
You bought me another.
The first time I felt shame:
I snuck into the living room, concealing my naked body in a blanket.
You demanded that I show you what was underneath.

I did not know, yet, how to speak in full sentences.
You marched me to the family’s house;
your hostage in flower print and hair barrettes.
The family said you look so pretty.

I learned later that pretty is a word with teeth.

I wish I could have told you:
I’m not your fucking Christmas tree
to decorate with glitz and gaud
to show off and then throw away
when my color turns: a fraud.

Doctor: Your mother says you don’t know who you are.
You: That’s right. She slicks her hair back and won’t cross her legs.
Doctor: I’m talking to Caitlin. Caitlin, how old are you?
Me: Six.
Sprouting toward womanhood, my limbs shivered when I caught sight of the saddle bags attached to my fat ass.
You just gotta exercise Cait, you told me.
I was incredulous. I couldn’t figure out how they got there.
I had started shooting up again.
Veins stretched along my arms like rivers dredging the earth’s surface —
I plunged
into them
forgetting my skin
exchanging it for the craggy floor below
your delicate sensibilities.

We don’t talk for years.
I resurface
You call me to explain:
I had to sever the relationship, Cait
to soften the blow from the inevitable phone call
bringing news of your death..

It had been so long since you told me
I love you

Afterwards, I went upstairs and looked in the mirror.
Misty eyed, I took a razor blade to my breast.
The next time I saw you,
you told me I looked pretty.

Instead of saying thank you,
I looked down at my hips and thought:
You condemned me to this.

Later, the word pretty gnaws on me while I try to sleep.
I sat, with morbid stillness, fingering the phone.
That day, I called you and said:
I’m changing my name
You haven’t called me Caitlin since.
After the doctor takes a scalpel to my breasts,
you will see me;
a gift I have waited for.

You will help me unwrap my body stitch by stitch.

I will weep as you sit beside me:
the child who opens the present.
I have emerged.



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A Poem to My Mother