By Yas Necati
I shut the door –
cradle a face that looks like mine
On this side, the paint transfers to my fingers
every time
I touch my cheeks
leaving holes in my beard
holes in this masculine self
that I sometimes use snazaroo
to etch into my face
on the other side
a boy looks back at me
a boy with my eyes and
maybe my name
maybe another
My girlfriend calls me
Can sometimes
(over the phone)
it is a Turkish name meaning
Heart
I see a boy who knows he is
real in a moment
we once walked on the streets,
me and the versions of myself.
now like everyone I am locked indoors
at least here I do not get weird looks
from men who don’t know even one of my names
here I do not get spat at
here I don’t have ‘real boys’
lashing their fingers out to my beard,
trying to tear it off
their nails ironically returning to them
with a layer of paint
gothic undertones
as long as I keep the door shut
Author:
Yas Necati (they/them) is a writer and performance poet based in London. They explore themes of queer and trans identity, migrant identity, mental health, recovery, community and resistance in their writing. Follow them on Twitter @yasnecati.
This poem is a part of DISTANCED 2.0.
ang(st) 