Trigger Warning
Your child cuts
his long curls. Deep crimson bleeds
across the tub after he dyes
them. He didn’t live
into his given name.
Father, please look!
He’s trying to talk. You look
away, so you don’t see a boy. You cut
him off, “I gave you that name.”
And his faith in you bleeds
because his self can’t live.
Father, inside your home he dies
for someone to see the dieline
of peach fuzz and acne. A look
he got from HRT to live
seen as your son, cut
off from those born with it in their blood.
Father, your child has a new name.
One you won’t say. You name
everything wrong with his disfigured body. Dying
to save him from this fate, so your bloodline
isn’t lost. He leaves and doesn’t look
back at the once sweet daughter pristinely cut.
Father, stop pretending she lives.
That’s when you see what you did. You live
day to day, sounding out his new name
hoping to show him to shave and cut
his hair. Camping, talking till the fire dies,
tight embrace, and tears. You take a distant look.
Father, are you guilty that he bleeds?
Eventually, his life will bleed
into a new chapter. He wants to live
with fond memories. He will look
at how your tone softens when you finally say his name.
Then slowly, the pain might die.
Father, be patient. His recovery has no shortcut.
Your paths could bleed together, giving life a new name.
You’re getting old, so live for him before you die.
Father, look. He wants you to give him a haircut.