Author: Alix Rax

Alix Rax blogs at yer pretty face is going to hell. They can also be found on Tumblr and Twitter.

mickey’s place

my throat sputters hotly. it’s time.
i race
to her bathroom; i kneel by her toilet and spurt
lava bubbles of lemon and lime in the pot.
it tastes of char,
burning my nostrils,
eating my guts.

here, i pray:

you god of the faithful,
you scumbag,
you dick,
what next? what

the reek of the brew in the bowl
is at home
in my desert of hair,
the unctuous scales of my skin.
here, i think,
this is what i am,
where i live,
this is what my body makes,
and it kills.
i feel mocked by the florid collage in the pot,
the chartreuse of the bile,
the sweat of it all.

she slinks in the room
on delicate feet.
with long nails she scratches her
deep figure eights of relief in my scalp,
and i cry.

she carries me to her bed,
sleeps on the couch.

Genderfuck Sonnet #3

I flex my skinny arm.  I crush a can.
I try a wink, a smirk, a vixen sneer—
they’d call it debonair on any man—
not me, of course!  There is no manhood here,
no muscle and, of course, no way to walk
or sit or stand without my girliness
pervading how I look, or smell, or talk.
How can I be a boy and wear a dress?
How can I be a girl?  What can I be?
And who will love me now, five years from now?
My self is shifting so tectonically,
from feet to heart to chest to furrowed brow.
My stress is up.  My tie has gone askew.
I fix it and am made a boy anew.

Genderfuck Sonnet #2

I’m twenty-two and changing in my bones.
I did it once already.  As a girl,
I wore size small; now, I wear extra small.
I grow my body hair until it curls.
In boyish second adolescence, I
chew toothpicks down to splinters, jut my chin,
adopt a swagger, sit with legs apart,
and try to fit in briefs designed for men.
I scowl at everyone.  Boys do not smile
when riding out the fury of their growth.
I hate the girlish figure that I cut,
the noisy curves in pants and dresses both.
In limbo I cannot escape this me:
a little boy too old for puberty.

Genderfuck Sonnet #1

They sought out lunar mysteries in tides,
the mirrored mysteries in monthly blood,
the hum and rhythm that the earth provides
for those that could stand upright from the mud.
And monthly blood was purely feminine,
meant to be mastered and kept out of sight.
A scarlet letter and a primal sin,
it stains our lives with redness and with spite.
It stains my life.  I never wanted curves.
I fit in women’s jeans, wear women’s lace,
All woman’s sweetness, courtesies, and nerves;
all doe and hen and femme and gentle face.
I’d kill for height, for broadness, and for clout
but bleed each month, a girl with no way out.