Each season of haircutting marked a major life shift, and I recoiled because I was tired of transitioning. I just wanted to be.
My father never took me to Sicily himself, and I yearned to go. I yearned to know the people he knew—and one person he’d never met.
Frarieville was the safe space on which I could plant my flag.
Quietly, I clung to what I knew: how to be an outsider in the South.
The Lexapro were small and white; the generic was free under my insurance. More expensive were the plants.
I used to think Miami was a kind of carbon copy of Havana. But I was wrong. We are not a copy, but a conversation.
How much does my fear of owning this darker voice hinge on a cultural insistence that it’s unhealthy, even unnatural? What if I’m all of it?
The idea that a place exists where trans people are free to be in and around the water fills me with joy.
Even on my worst day as a writer, I’m closer to the creative life I dreamed of at eighteen than ever before.
A poet wrestles with grief and the multiverse.