Under the benches
of the girl’s locker room,
in a small private elementary school,
is my deadname, calligraphy in the wood.
A pencil with my deadname on it.
Last night my mother finally choked up
and admitted,
I think you’re beautiful.
You’re a beautiful girl.
I’m watching my little girl die.
Is my childhood handwriting feminine?
OR DID MY MOMMY STAB ME IN THE SOLAR PLEXUS?
With a pencil, with—
—my deadname on it.
I got compliments once people finally understood what I was mumbling.
That’s a very nice name.
I’m just a mouldy sandwich on the side of the road
with parents for bread.
I wish I had nothing to do
with the dead little girl I have been dragging around.
Why can’t I be beautiful and not a girl, Maman?
Ma petite fille.
Je t’aime.
You can’t make a corpse grow any taller or realer.
I had to amputate this thing
to save myself.
Don’t you understand?
I will be my own pallbearer.
Li Conde (they/them) is a nonbinary amateur artist and writer. Conde’s poetry is meant to be meticulously paced and easy to absorb. They strive to create art moments that are meaningful to everyone, and are fostering an impulse of imbibing their life with as much art and literature
as possible.
