Found Poem: Waking Up Trans in 2026

My alarm goes off at 6:07.  The sun sneaks through the space in the blinds, and sunlight offers a quick snapshot of my life: my partner, already alert, curled into my chest, her long dark hair stretching toward my shoulders.  A soft good morning. The dog, head resting on my foot, his golden hair the color of summer. The latest art project-- a mannequin, painted metallic rose, catching light by the window.  The shadow of my favorite tree just beyond it.  My binder and socks crumpled in a black ball on the floor.  My transness, wadded up and hidden in the dark. We lie still for a moment longer.  I listen to the calming cadence, the in and out, the fill and release of my girlfriend’s breath.  Favorite part? I ask.

Favorite part, she whispers back.

We start every day this way.  The same question.  The same answer.  It doesn’t matter what comes next in the day, we always affirm: this is the absolute best of it.  A moment kept for the two of us. The chaos of the outside world irrelevant. 

By 6:22 I am out of bed to walk the puppy, then his older brother. 

6:33 I am back inside to feed them.

6:45 I get dressed, brush my teeth, throw pomade in my hair, look at the mirror.  Smile.  I like my reflection.  Checking yourself out again? My partner laughs.

Can you blame me? I say back. 

But the truth is, this feeling of contentment is hard earned.

For decades, I met myself in mirrors as a stranger. I would catch my reflection unexpectedly—in a store window, a bathroom mirror, the dark screen of a turned-off television—and feel the same brief confusion.

Oh.

Right.

That's me.

The long shoulder-length hair. The trace of mascara beneath my eyes. A face-- a life,  that never felt entirely mine.

Over the years, I made small changes. No makeup. A shorter cut. Looser t-shirts.

I look like a boy.

I look like me.

This morning, I woke up, a transgender guy, just as I had woken up the day, the week, the year before. 

But today was different.

In an attempt to sell my memoir, as requested by agents and publishers, I’d been trying to gain a following on social media.  I posted about the book. About sexual violence. About advocacy. 

Occasionally, I posted about my queerness.  My transness.

The latest video accrued over 3,000 comments.  And all day, my inbox dinged with messages from strangers across the globe.

7:06, I am out the door, in my car, on my way to an AA meeting.  I buckle my seatbelt.  Ding

You are mentally ill

I shake my head, roll my eyes in silence, drive down the long winding road, windows down, Palmyra floating from the speakers, take in the beauty of the bright green trees, the natural curves of the earth directing the cascading road. 

I arrive at the meeting at 7:26. Ding.

People are sick of this idiotic nonsense.

I sit in the back seat, the same seat I take every morning.  Wave and smile as the regular crew makes their way in.  Look forward at a wall full of welcome signs. 

 Ding.

You know exactly why you transvestites are hated so much. Quit playing coi about it.

Ding

No one jelous bitch

Ding!

You guys shoot up schools, that’s why we hate you

Ding!

You’re a fucking clown, you fucking freak.

Ding Ding Ding

I will be so happy if you’re one of the 50% of transvestites that fucking puts a gun in their mouth and pulls the trigger.

After the meeting, I make my way to work.  I run a safe house for survivors of human trafficking.  My first meeting of the day is with a young girl, trafficked by her father, coming to us from the streets after years of being sold and raped.  She tells me she has nightmares.  That she sleeps with the lights on.  I put my hand on her shoulder.  Make sure to meet her eyes. 

I slept with the lights on for two years after leaving the sex industry. Slept on the streets for another year after that.

She nods.

I know it's hard right now, I tell her.

Ding!

Faggot

Ding

Nasty lesbian

Ding!

I know you have thought about it.

Ding!

You should do it.  You will end up alone

Ding!

Don’t you think it would just be easier to kill yourself now?

Ding!

I guarantee if your father is still around, he wouldn’t mind.

Ding!

Overdose on your medication’s,

Ding!

slit your wrists,

Ding!

borrow a gun from one of your angry trans friends,

Ding!

I don’t care how you do it, just please kill yourself.

Ding!

Hope this helps you dyke.

9pm.  I light a candle.  Listen to the soft crackle of the flame.  Turn the lights off.  Curl up next to my partner, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the TV.  Her teeth poking out between her parted lips, she meets me with a smile.  You okay, b? 

Ding!

Ding!

Ding!

Ding!

I turn my phone on silent, put it face down on the floor.  Cradling her face in my palm, one dog curled up at our feet, the other huddled by my side, I look into her eyes.  This time, I curl up into her, my head on her chest.  I feel the steady cadence of her breath, the rhythmic rise and fall. Favorite part? She whispers.

Favorite part, I say back. 

Between the soft hum of her breath, the phone vibrates on the floor.