Giving Gender Dysphoria a Name Other Than–

for a while, I thought I was
the princess
for a while, I soaked shawls in ombre dye
my sister called them useless
thin scarves who would want clothing you could see through
she’s right, the body transparent
is an invitation for breaking
as if no one knew what was inside

for a while, I was a boy
& then a hermit crab, then cormorant,
then a pool table used for laundry, paperwork
most people are what they think
you can’t do much else with a name
but don it like armor look, here are some

skinny fuck priss faghat William lunch next period

most living things are edible
most things are not princesses
most people don’t have two bodies

when making a tourniquet you tie a scarf above
the bleeding, separate the injury
from the body okay
I’m both prince & princess so what
if I’m both, or neither
when you’re a boy you’re as blue
as sky, as atmosphere, as what keeps people
alive so what am I without a hero
or a demon to pluck me from my shell
I’m not a damsel I’m not distressed

I’m not a diagnosis I’m not a dialect
I try to be all the fruit in the blender
for a while I was a tongue
sludge of genderless buds
I tasted names tart blackberries
sour from the bracken

when I’m a girl I put barrettes in my hair
for when I see my therapist later that day
for a while I can keep it up
the purple overlay, softer clothing, & then
my mouth trims the lilacs from my tongue
I name the girl in me
giving, the boy taking
time away from prayer
because that’s what it is, the filtering
into other genders, a communion I walk
in public with, my unleavened names of people I am
that day: Irene Sammy
when I’m a girl I have to believe my other genitals don’t
exist, pray that my body comes back

for a while my sister would yell my middle name
when she was pissed at me
my great grandfather’s & I imagine he wakes up
sees a short ace queer no-gender kid
who keeps invoking his name
I apologize to him more than my sister
for trying on her leggings
but I fit like glue to glue

I don’t know how to keep myself in my clothes
when I’m not sure which are mine
if we kept our names on everything I’d lose track
of my body
that’s okay though I can’t keep track
of my gender anyway

to give a name is to call
it yours so then where are mine
I’ve named things, I know I have—sometimes I say
trans, non-binary, genderfluid, or my dead dog’s name, Libby

I turn orange in limelight
I grow fiddlehead ferns along my arms
boil their androgynous names in the Teflon pot
I’ve surrounded myself with titles
in compensation yellowed cuticles of myself
a corkboard curled with clippings
a terminology of roots, loam, nutrients,
weed or flower, still a plant
what grows in me next depends only
on how I cultivate it

elegy for dead end roads

take this road. no, it’s
this one. whatever.
you might as well drive
down every road
we see. but we’re not

allowed to go back-
wards. see the apple
orchard? okay. good.
swollen as an eye
lid. we’re exiled from

there until both sides
of the road are ours.
you’re glowing, baby,
with night, with headlights.
blinded by what comes

next, now you’re blonde, now
you’re all silhouette.
no, i won’t bring up
google maps. maybe
i want to be lost.

maybe forward means
vacuuming our foot
steps as we go. no.
you’re right. we’d never
get anywhere by

that method. that high-
way rest stop might have
fold-out maps. what? it
would be like we’re on
a trip across the

country. like we’re here
together, sitting,
for a reason. like it’s
authentic. like we’re
holding hands and you

only need one hand
to steer. i know a
few things about how
momentum works. how
potential energy

is stored within a
domino. that’s it,
though. the opposing
ends are supposed to
match. a parked car has

so much potential,
even when all drive-
ways are dead ends. by
that, i mean we’re still
in our coffins. let’s get

out. we never left
the orchard. the home-
owners by now
probably grabbing
their shotgun, flashlight,

ready to watch our
skeletons in our
wake. do you hear the
blood? or my screaming
feet like tires? chase

me. every light
red, begging us to
stop. reach out your arm.
i might not be there,
but here’s something for

the road, something that’s
maybe delicious.

Liam Strong is a queer writer and the former Editor-in-Chief of NMC Magazine. Currently, they’re working on their Bachelor’s in English at the University of Wisconsin-Superior while working as an English tutor, as well as a staff writer for The Promethean, where they write music, movie, and book reviews. You can also find their work in Impossible Archetype, The 3288 Review, The Maynard, Peach Mag, Blue River Review, and Panoply. They have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2019. They live in Traverse City, Michigan.