One Word: A Poem

For so long I hid myself behind a veil.
A label. One word: Awkward.



I thought my body was awkward.
I wore pants in the summer
because I secretly thought that my thighs
were fatter than they were
and I hid this feeling behind the lies:
“My legs don’t get hot”
“I’m used to it. I have to wear pants
for field work.” My hips.
The fat that sits upon the bones.
It gives a girl that curvaceous appeal.
I despised the curves that sat there, but let
them be their awkward selves.



My face always looked
so masculine to me. “You
look so much like your dad!”
“The female twin to your brother”
Yes, I know. The female version.
My endless prayers to God to wake
as a boy when I was young never
were answered. I dealt with it. I was
stuck, born to be the female
double to my older brother.



I thought my personality was awkward.
Can I rephrase that? It is awkward. BUT
that does not define me, but I have let it become
me. I don’t know how to talk to people. It’s because
I’m awkward. I started college and made some friends
but I find it hard to make them on my own terms.
It’s because I’m awkward. To me, I was just that
AWKWARD kid. But I am more than that. What
I mislabeled as “awkward” are my insecurities,
fears, and lack of self-esteem and confidence.



There’s a young boy who I always saw
staring back at me. My reflection told me more
about the boy hidden behind “Awkward”. He hid
behind the pole of a word like a child might when
trying to find the perfect place for hide
and go seek. Of course I could see him
behind the pole, behind the title, but I
let him think I didn’t. I let him believe
he was a master at the game until he really was
and I lost sight of him as the pole grew in width
and suddenly he and I combined in the only manner
I knew how, we showed ourself to the world as the
awkward girl, she was kind and caring but something
was never quite right about her.



A new label. Because society loves
them so much. One word:
Transgender. Me.
Female to male. I’ve always wished
so dearly to have been born a boy.
I thought it impossible to see myself
as anything but that awkward girl and I
fooled myself into thinking I was okay with
what I was born as. Until one day in college
I looked in the mirror and felt all the confidence
that everyone should naturally feel. Make-up
gave me the shadow of what I could be as a man
until I had to unwrap the ace bandage from my breasts
and wash the façade off of my skin and become
the awkward girl again.



Transgender. This one word
gives me that confidence back.
The hair on my legs grow and I feel
progressively comfortable in shorts.
One day my hips will no longer bother
me with the fat that lays upon them. My face
has always been my own. I look like my dad
and my brother, I look masculine, and that’s my
comfort spot. Becoming myself. The fear to talk
to strangers fades. “I like your hair!” some guy
tells me, riding past on his bike. I could respond
without nerves. I could respond as myself.



I do not believe that I am broken, I am not
sick in the head or confused. This is not a rebellious
phase. This is just me. So, I say this:
Friends, I am still and will always be the same
person you met. I’m still the same person you decided
was cool enough or kind enough to befriend.
Family, I am still the same person you watched grow
up. You are not losing a child, grandchild,
sibling, or what have you. I am not going
anywhere. If anything, I am becoming more
present than ever. I will always be your child. I will always
be your grandchild. I will always be your
sibling. I will always be me.



For those of you who might not agree with
my decision to follow and become myself,
I respect your opinion and bid you adieu and wish
you the happiest of lives if you decide to no longer
be a part of my journey. For those of you who
support my decision and wish to come along
for the ride as I grow into the man I have always
been: I thank you, I love you, and you all mean the world
to me. No words can express my appreciation
for each and every one of you.



I used to say: “my life is a submarine”
and on days when I was feeling particularly
down, I would end the line with “and we’re all
sinking”. Now the submarine is afloat, so climb
aboard this journey with me. Let me introduce myself,
this is Captain Hayden Reid Fulfer speaking. Please
buckle your seat belts. This is going to be a very
bumpy ride. But the journey is worth it.
“My life is a submarine” and the fish that
surround me are beautiful and glorious creatures,
the water around me is so fresh and we may all
be sinking, but now we’re sinking with a purpose,
to explore, an adventure. Because coming out
of my submarine is nerve wrecking as hell, but
I am glad to have the grime scrubbed off my
sides and such a supportive crew.

A Letter from Your Son

You’ll never find a boy

If you don’t grow your hair out.

No, mom, I’ll never find a boy

if I let it grow. The boy’s inside me,

has been, screaming, wailing to be

released, to be me. You torture him

with expectations, dresses and frills

not realizing he’s your son.

We support you, they say.

Support and understanding

are two different ideas,

you’ve mixed them up.

I’m afraid.

Be yourself there’s no one

else to be. Slow down,

girl, you’re rushing.

How do you rush becoming

yourself when you’ve waited

twenty years?

I finally met him.

Shook his hand and said hello,

he’s polite, funny, kind, loving,

passionate, he’s me. 

Crash

Because baby, a relationship is a two way street

and we fucking collided

texting and driving we smashed

our hearts, shattered our windshields

with the insults we threw at one another.

We lost ourselves in the rain

and couldn't pull the sun out to guide

us again. The map lay torn at our feet,

a destination that won't be reached by the wheels

of our Love.

"Baby, let's go on an adventure"

you said. "Let's climb mountains" I suggested.

And we did. But you soon grew tired and achy.

I was left to carry you, limp, down the mountain

and into the valley of our insecurites. You soon

decided you were fat, not pretty enough, I

soon decided I wasn't doing enough, everything

that exited my lips was another rock thrown at our

lives. The sun came out to tell us

the flowers growing between our

feet were black and rotten, you saw

it and let go, I let go too.

You suffered from amnesia.

"No, that's not what I said" you screamed,

"That never happened." I was left on a not-so-

merry-go-round in my head, nauseous and unsure.

"you ruin everything", "you always play the victim"

Your words flew through my head and I knew

there was nothing to salvage from this love.

But one flower still grew between us,

a yellow tulip stained with the red

lipstick you used to leave on my rosy

cheeks. I saw hope in the petals of Spring

and looked at your lips to read a promise,

but maybe I misread. "I'll always be here"

instead of "It just hurts too God damn much".

We lie on the pavement under shattered

glass of the windshields of our perspectives.

I lie writhing, paint from a stary sunset

and a lone mason jar of hopes leaking

into my broken self-image. You

lie amongst your packed boxes, ridding

yourself of the memory of us. You've

already called yourself a taxi to anywhere

that I'm not. "There's no good in goodbye".

My First "Love"

She drained my energy, I was a slave

to her, the human counterpart 

to her relationship with Facebook,

Vine and Soda Crush. I made up for the fact

that the screen in her hands could not fold

laundry or satisfy her sex addiction. I slipped 

away from her grubby palms, and she grabs

the air for me, tugging at the threads connected

to my heart beat. "I know you better than you

know yourself," she whispers. "We're soul mates,

being with me is inevitable." I sit up, sweat

dripping down my back, trying to catch

my breath and tear myself back to my bed,

the quilt I lay underneath. I beg her to move

on. Her ears are taped shut, a political statement

she claims. Her claw-less fingers rake at my skin

and implants her own cells. My body repulses,

shakes and seizes. My hands are black 

from the metal of the bars that contain me.

Short Poems

Webs of Fear

We are always afraid of something,

Our parents catching us in the cookie jar,

Teachers collecting the homework we never touched.

Hurting ourselves doing that one thing we were told not to,

Getting caught in the bedroom of our girlfriend by her father.

Pregnancy at a young age.

That midterm, the final.

Death.

And spiders.

Especially spiders.

Inevitable

Maybe you cried at birth

because you knew that from

that second onward you would spend

the rest of your life growing up.

Flowers and a Love poem

She throws a plate at your head,

ducking, it soars past your shoulder.

You hated its floral print anyway.

Picking up the phone

you order Chinese food for two.

5lbs 3oz, 1ft 6in

We measure babies

like we measure the fish

we catch because we all swim

in the same ocean of life.

But most importantly,

we all grow up shitting ourselves.

C.K. Fulfer