oprah tried to kill me

when oprah and her goons
a mob of strangers and
uniformed cops, came rushing
towards me, i swung at them
with all my might.
my mind was miles away
from the truth, unaware that in reality,
i was standing in a walgreens parking lot 
punching air.
as i slithered from their grips
i sought refuge in the nearest
parked car. swinging
the door open, i was met with a
screaming woman commanding
get the fuck out!
suddenly, the clasp of oprah’s hands
around my neck felt safer.
though i could not understand
why, of all people,
oprah winfrey wanted me dead.

perhaps it was the bump
i’d inhaled along with a vape
that was solicited from who knows where
from a dealer whose name i never
bothered to learn. perhaps it was the bottle
of wine i swallowed along with my disappointment
of constantly being misgendered and deadnamed
on a daily basis while still making no progress towards top surgery. 

growing impatient, i drew closer to inpatient hospitalization
as i stood in the mirror with a knife debating
if i should cut the bitches off myself.
there’s a long list of shit that drove me to yanking 
every cord out of their sockets when i thought
oprah tapped my telephone, tv, and toaster.

perhaps i went crazy when
my aunt said if i don’t stop being gay
i’ll end up dead like my gay uncle
who died of AIDS. as if that wasn’t enough
to make me lose my mind,
my heart broke some more times
when my mother cosigned her.
trust me, it wasn’t just drugs that
poisoned my dreams. i’d died
long before weed laced my lips. 

long before
oprah hired chicago police
to spy on me through my camera phone
and take screenshots of my face
to capture my surroundings
and pinpoint my location.
but no, i screenshot cops!
i make a photo album, name it ‘proof,
and fill it with photos of my own lock screen
so they can see me seeing them! 

i’d never felt seen
by anyone other than my own eyes.
most days, i was frequently reduced
to some black girl that’s just confused
and maybe instead of removing my tits
i really just needed to get some dick.

when i met oprah,
i no longer desired to be seen
by my own reflection.
oprah chased me so i could stop running.
the drugs were a gateway to my higher self.
when i found myself
on an ambulance stretcher,
i took it as a sign to stop stretching my truth
to please people who ain’t give a fuck
about my wellbeing. i started demanding
that the world call me by my name.
to proclaim my pronoun is they
and let them choke on the pronunciation
of my existence. i refuse to let myself or
my people go extinct, and i will no longer
let anyone drive me to the brink
of an early expiration date.

i’ve since plugged my appliances back in
and turned the tv back on.
i see oprah every now and again,
her podcast is quite compelling.
i’m no longer afraid of oprah.
i’m no longer afraid of me.
yes, i’m clean
from toxic and transphobic people.

if,
by chance,
you find yourself throwing hands
at no one
in a walgreens parking lot,
remember, it is absolutely real.
then thank your mind for trying to heal.