Mattie-Bretton Hughes
Mattie-Bretton Hughes is a disabled, nonbinary-transmasc writer from Detroit, Michigan. Through journaling he discovers poetry within the jumbled words. His work observes identity and the human condition, with inspiration from nature and the cosmos. Like the wind blowing wherever it’s called to, or flowing notes on a scale, Mattie’s true self exists unbound, singing on the breeze. Mattie’s work has appeared in Querencia Press, Beyond The Veil Press, Snowflake Magazine, Wishbone Words, and elsewhere.
Shopping for a Penis
Blue light burns my retinas, I lay flat while I browse for a bulge. Scrolling through categories; color, size, adhesive, hang, or stuff; natural, for the eyes to gaze, proof for my own mind; STP so I don’t have to squat; built-ins so I don’t leave my package behind, what a concept to be attached to the thing that would make me whole. Flacid or hard? It’s too hard being womxn, too soft in-between. So many options, where do I begin? Is my body made-to-order? I just want a lump between my legs, to feel boyhood against my thighs, to adjust when I feel the need, to grab hold of my need.
Do I put it in a pouch and magnetize it to my heart? Do I stuff it in a sock that I wore to Christmas dinner? What a gift to behold, a package full of trans euphoria. What if I strapped it on a belt, wrapped it around my hips, like his legs when he trapped me between heaven and sin? Do I ask my partner what they’d like to see? Do I model for society’s gaze? Will I pass or do they have trans x-ray hate? I wonder if they offer try-before-you-buy, or classes for rehearsal? Are there returns for the wrong genitals?
"What inspired my poem 'Shopping For A Penis' was the deep dysphoria I feel being transmasculine. I've always experienced bottom dysphoria and have felt deep shame for the ways I attempted to quell those feelings, from wearing boys' underwear to stuffing socks in my undergarments.
Back when I was growing up trying to understand these feelings, packing wasn't something readily available or spoken about. Nor was simply logging online and shopping for a phantom appendage. So when this became an option, I wrote about what that experience felt like, and the complexities of mixed emotions like shame, embarrassment, fear, even euphoria and laughter."
I Am Death Beneath My Skin
Stale sweat and knotted wood // he breathes me out like the wind // gone cold // gasoline burns me // inside I hear her scream // I distill grief in holy water // within the church of sin // The band plays on into my ears // mind blank of all fears // I am death beneath my skin // only he can catch me // before I reach Heaven // He watches me dance // in the void // in the nude // I don’t exist here // except when his voice breaks the seal // My fingers // bone pickin’ on strings // limp from strummin’ // too much // strung too hard // strings pop // Heart breaks a flood // I taste love for the first time
When Binaries Collide
It's like another dimension, the one where I'm the boy
and I'm allowed to beat my chest and yell with all the animals,
is driving closer and closer to this reality,
the one where I'm a prisoner in a body barbed with shame,
and it thrusts upon the borders of here and now,
and I can feel him, the boy, reaching out in pain.
He's soft, and dreams of the day he can caress his own face
and the relics of boyhood won't coerce him again.
He tugs at my heart when his parallel docks,
and I grieve the life we lived without knowing the pure joy of existing as one.
It hurts, like I never knew hurt could hurt.
I feel him just below my heart, wings thrashing, mending with my soul.
When binaries collide, there is no he or she.
A paroxysm of light, ethereal and free, healing genetic scars.
We're just merging stars.
Everyday I Dead-Shame Myself
Monday
I dead-shame the tandem eyes that stare down at the bilateral form in the mirror. Reflection lies, I see them quarrel, try to convince me my heart can’t pump for two unless there’s someone in my womb. It’s just an old pocket, an apron with strings attached to my soul where I keep all the dying stars. I can claw the skin but there’s always more of me. I could cut it out. Make it like it never existed, but it did, and the hole that was there will be a void where I keep all the dying tears.
Tuesday
I dead-shame the dyadic orbs that point to me with a yearning for lips. A tiny mouth that will never exist. I feel them weep, yearning to give nourishment, colostrum, beastings of Mother Earth, and I refuse. I could bind them, tie them down like womxn have been tied to the ground since some man said the Earth began. I could have them surgically removed, twins of shame. The scars will be telling of a girl reborn into a body without a name.
Wednesday
I dead-shame the curves that flow around the form of me, like roiling waves, rolling hills over a vast terrain I’m unfamiliar with. Cellulite dips like karst topography, ample land, smooth as powder snow, decaying into fatty deposits. I could massage the flesh, force myself to touch parts only men have groped. Smooth the ditches where my blood won’t flow. Age resists, dissolution persists, at least I can shelter in my own built-in spring. Worn away from the top, dissolved from the weak spot in my heart, pooling into orange-peel skin.
Thursday
I dead-shame the scars running like a road toward a life I’ll never know. Tracks to nowhere, pits of burnt sins, bruises and stigma. Welts to remember the day I almost gave my life away. Notches marking each battle I disappeared into his eyes, died on the floor between his thighs, reanimated with the sun, when my battle’s just begun. One line, a suture to the next, a patchwork of shared hurts joining together. A wound that I know how to heal.
Friday
I dead-shame the pain of temperance, my body marred in severance to reality, tranquilizing grief, dissonant tears receding into wood. Ridgid, chronic spirit ache, I move in stop-motion, disabled to my vital child, mourning my mistakes. Now I drown in white paper reality. No one’s coming to save me except twelve steps up a flight of stairs to serenity.
Saturday
I dead-shame the queer boy residing in my heart. Who will recognize that she’s holding him hostage? He flutters behind a bone cage, chirps at crooning voices floating from the radio, nibbles at the flesh pumping life into my limbs. We danced in black holes, nebulous blasts expanding across sheer bifrost mountains, sprinkling over opalescent worlds. He pursued my breath like a comet, dazzling shock of a tail and mane sparking up the firmament. We lived a full life, burning bright, expanded, luminosity erupting one million times the size of infinity. Binaries, scattered far beyond origin. But infamy, before us, dogma void of life drawing our gravity to their event horizon, consuming our rays, one-third the speed of light. Their darkness sucking us into their vortex, every last drop of energy, until all that remained was the gaping abyss of our existence.
Sunday
I dead-shame the queer love resting on my shoulder. To carry the banner in this world is a dangerous endeavor. A blessing and a curse, and they could smell it on me. Ravenous boys out for blood, my soft bleeding heart. Victimizers on the hunt, patterned to generational bigotry. The blessing of a pure heart couldn't keep my body safe. Tender flesh cursed to the object of defilement. They sniff out unmarred flesh, and blacken their tenderness. Take bites of self-esteem, chew apart identities, grope the bodies of resilient girls and soft-hearted boys and call it games. Every night, I kneel at my window and pray my heart will stop dreaming for two. The world doesn't want our souls to bloom. Doesn’t want tenacious girls and sensitive boys wearing hearts on their sleeves and taking up room. To carry the banner in this world is a holy endeavor. A blessing and agreement, a sacrament of heartsight, love, and mercy. Not for the faint of heart, but the ones who carry it freely on their sleeve, a banner the whole world can see.