the t4t project - issue one

the t4t project issue one winter 2023

© 2023 the t4t project all rights reserved t4tproject.carrd.co @t4tproject

cover: "the t4t project" text designed by GVGK Tang & trans symbol from "TRANSVESTITES: your half sisters and half brothers of the Revolution" by Sylvia Rivera (https://t4tproject.carrd.co/#sylviarivera1972)

table of contents & content warnings (5) letter from the organizers (6) poem by Lavi court room setting (7) photography by Máte Vargas graffiti art on trans identity, transphobia, transfemicides (8) poems by ava (9) God in the Garden & I travelled to an empty future by Kiana Marrie Mayo (10-11) Meteor Shower & Pisces Season Have Me Like… by Sam Wise (12-13) 381 Lunar Transitions since “the parting” & Date Unknown by Ebony (14) The World of To'o: The Last President by Xūmat Plūto (15) No Pride in Any Nation by Vasi Samudra Devi (16-17) Amphibious by Kobe Taylor Natachu (18) a queer reading of malin kundang by Tan Arsa Sagara (19) Artificial Woman by Vasi Samudra Devi (20) What I Feel Loss For by Fern Golden colonization, language loss, species loss (21) Another Hunger Artist by D.M. Rice sexual content, objectification (22) art by Thangam Rajinibala nudity (23) Mush Runes by Kiana Marrie Mayo (24) She Voices the Fog by Fern Golden (25) Antiphon by GVGK Tang (26) poem by katharina mental illness (27) Rest stop renaissance by vagabondgyal mental health, trauma, homelessness (28-29) Journal of a Confused... Person by Sammi Jacobs (30) Reign, by Xūmat Plūto explicit language (31) art by squid (32) Him, Bunnibee (33) art by Ezio non-sexual nudity (35) creators (36) how to submit

letter from the organizers dear reader, would you believe that two years ago, when we Googled tpoc4tpoc, there were no results? but now, when we search the same... we find you. so many organizations and publications focus on "diversifying" their spaces by "including" trans people of color. instead of fitting ourselves into spaces that were never meant for us, we wanted something that was our own. we asked ourselves, "what does it look like when art, history, memory, and folklore are created by, for, and about trans people of color?" the t4t project is a zine by/for/about trans artists & storytellers of color. it is part offering, part love letter for our kindred. it is grassroots cultural work that weaves together our pasts and our futures. it is trans of color histories that inform trans of color imaginaries. we are BIPOC, disabled, fat, femme, heaux, and poor centered. though incredibly empowering, tpoc4tpoc cannot be romanticized. intra-communal issues like ableism, classism, and transmisogynoir persist. so, we're showing up in ways only a community like ours knows how - deeply, persistently, tenderly, beautifully, pensively, ecstatically... because mutual aid goes beyond the material. it's deep collaboration, skills lending, emotional labor, and education. it's about creating a community of care. check out our first ever issue and all the works it contains - read, view, experience, savor, indulge, reflect, inspire, celebrate, amplify... and please support the beautiful people who helped create it.

with love, vagabondgyal & GVGK Tang

Today ...

In court I stood up Saw fear rescind It’s claim on the room No longer shouting my failures across the crowd.

Watched rage take leave from the stand No longer arguing and fighting.

Giving way for grace to testify on my behalf She spoke Of forgiveness and rejuvenation Spoke of my growth and journey She gave way to blessing Blessing spoke of the beauty of my work and the amazing things I have yet to do Told the world of how important I am and will be And so In walked Love, Peace, hope, and faith The 4 sisters danced about the court engulfing the room in their virtues and then my shell cracked, shattered, and revealed bliss and joy Revealed me beautiful, loving, graceful, peaceful, hopeful, faithful, and blessed

Lavi

by Máte Vargas

Normal girl, Normalcy, What is normalcy for me in a world of transmisogynoir?; The denial of safety, Care, Sentience, Love, Affection.

Am I insane?

How can I be sane in a world that seeks my destruction?

Where do I find refuge?

Safety, Safety, Safety, Where can I find such a thing?

always running in the cold; wayward child, no home, nowhere to run, face the cold, run, you can't escape the coldness, that is this world. hostility, chaos, and violence; what can you do? what is the solution? destroy the world, wayward child.

(i am not normal).

blackness, alone, something that can’t be understood, pain that isn’t acknowledged, sentience denied, left for dead, obliteration, humanity, human, who loves the valueless, the forgotten, the neglected, the displaced? the ones without value or worth, are we seen as human? are we human? are we seen? are we? no; no we are not.

‘im fine’ ‘im good’ carelessness; no need for care love happiness; i wanted to find new interesting, and exciting. someone came into my life who was nice and shared interests with me. feelings of relief, gratefulness, what happens later broke me ‘you’re sadness was irrelevant to me’ anger, anger, anger, tears fall like rain down my face; without words, feelings, love, coldness; where do i go to find love and care? from myself. my self me i love myself so much.

(no love or care).

(i am that wayward child).

(social death).

ava

God in the Garden

Kiana Marrie Mayo

I took this during my walk exploring Downtown Pittsburgh. On my search for something to photograph, I found my way into a building full of architecture that felt other-worldly. It looked very minimalistic and futuristic on the inside, yet the sharp angles and patterns seemed to direct me to this very tree. The way the light shined through it's branches and leaves, presented me the vision of two eyes and a face. A divine synchronicity, with a sprinkle of biomimetic elements.

I travelled to an empty future This was taken in the same location that I took the "God in the Garden" photo. I loved the angular structure and minimalism of the building quite a lot.What really caught my attention was how relatively empty it was, considering the reality on the other side of the glass entrances; Just outside, the city of Pittsburgh was alive and loud.

Meteor Shower

by Sam Wise

Pisces Season Have Me Like…

by Sam Wise

381 Lunar Transitions since “the parting” The 40 year old ceiling fan barely hung on, only 2 screws from giving someone permanent brain damage. Staring at it, I was trying to make sense of my whole situation. “Where in the fuck am I going to get this money?” Reats said she’s coming to collect and I ain’t got shit. To think all those years I put in for Yads & his crew, everything I did for them, I sacrificed, where did that go…fuck I’m still in this shithole and he’s moved on to Terstam, expanded to almost ¾ of the Plelar region. Asurwtah’s round table barely has a hand in anything now. They’re a skeleton of what the “old world” used to be. Yifcus' urn shined brighter than before as the afternoon sunlight struck it. “Well my love, time to get to work I guess”. There’s always work to be done in the upper zone of Relas Naaher. My Anat oil worked just fine, my rig was at 83% and that was the best I would be getting especially during this season, active volcanoes spitting out ash every hour gave me a limited amount of time to handle this list. I never enjoyed collecting but it kept me and Yifcus fed, so who am I to argue how we get the money? Yifcus never had a problem with what we did, granted his emotions fluctuated every other minute, and I could barely tell what they were feeling without revfassing our cortexes. The Asurwtahian national health initiative made it illegal to revfas with anyone that didn’t have authorization but no one gave a fuck. Yifcus’ old comic books would call it “telepathy” well that’s the best descriptor I could use, it was more than just crossing into each others cortexes, you traversed every nerve, every cell, you felt the lifeblood of the other person and what it contained. That was how we were so effective in collecting. I’ve never been able to fully access the “anomalies” in my cells but Yifcus always found a way to unlock the anomalies my ancestors carried that were dormant in my wiring. Everytime it was something new, we didn’t know whether we’d gain the strength of a Midsoon, or collapse from the overwhelming amount of pressure but it was well worth the risk, at least I thought it was….

Ebony

Date Unknown Pain, immense pain, it was all I could feel, coursing through my arms, my legs, a headache that felt like 1000 karamins echoing. Opening my eyes I could see we were in some sort of temple, or the ruins of one, my memory was.. I don’t know reaching into my pack, a stack of films, pictures as they would call it in the old world.

“Remember” Flipping through them I forced myself to concentrate, “Cmon, please remember something” There had to be dozens of them “What the hell!”

Nothing. Frustration, increasing anxiety, nothing was coming from this, but what else could I do?

Alone, hungry, lost, yea I was definitely doing great. Surprisingly my legs were still okay, not that I remember falling or anything but the pain must have been caused by something right? It took a few moments to gather my strength, as i rose to my feet, it was like a switch had been hit, the chamber was illuminated by an immense light, but I didn’t see any candles, or wall-mounted torches. I looked down and my arms, the tattoos on them were glowing with a brightness that I can’t even describe.

Suddenly, the pain began to dissipate, holding up my hands, the path was made clear, “What in the hell is this shit?”

In the distance Mount Hanning was preparing to erupt with a force that I feared would destroy everything. Yet somehow I was connected to it.

Brief but intense flashes, images of my life or what I thought it was before I woke up in this mysterious land.

It happened faster than I could even process, a ghost? No part of me, but….they appeared what felt out of nowhere but I also could tell she was inside me this whole time. She was mesmerizing, in every way, the flames surrounding her, her immaculate beauty, her radiant essence, until I realized…

“What the fuck? You’re me????”

The entity laughed “How did it take you so long to figure that out? We have A LOT to talk about so summon your Cirrus and let’s go!”

All I could do was stare in awe, how was this me? I…they looked just like me, but yet there was so much that was different about them.

“Fuck it, let’s go!”

Ebony

The World of To'o: The Last President Prologue

For the beginning of summer, the waning spring breezes still sent a chill down my spine as I deeply inhaled Chicago's famous wind.

We'd got an early start beginning our tour a whole year before the election with the intent of visiting every major black city in the country, and only those cities, twice if we had the time. We started at home, in Detroit, before we moved to Columbus, and now to Chicago, but even with only these few stops, Themba hadn't been able to catch a break.

"Do you really think running a campaign on the backs of an almost Malcolm X Esque ideology will get you a seat in the white house?" one interviewer asked. "You sound just as racist as they are some days," stated another. Time after time, mass media intended to fail Themba in any way they could. They presented every possible opportunity for him to put his own foot in his own mouth, like the fool they viewed him as.

"Unacountrary," Themba smirked. "If I sounded as racist as they did, I'd already be winning this election."

Simple singular statements like that would bring busy interviews to a halt. I'd never seen Themba lose an argument, except to his father.

The former Black Panther always walked with his chest raised to the sky and strength to each step that carried the weight of the ancestors he'd had the pleasure of connecting with. He carried himself proudly through the halls of the stadium until his feet landed in front of a frustrated and anxious Themba. In an instant, this tough persona melted away and was replaced with the doting father I was used to seeing behind closed doors.

"Are you okay? Did something happen?" he worried as he gently rubbed Themba's arms.

"Another fucking 'article' about me being a racist-backpedaling-separationist-" Themba spouted, growing louder with each hyphen.

"Ah, I see," Malcolm sighed as he too entered the small room. Malcolm, Themba's husband of three years and his college sweetheart, towered over the rest of us as he strutted his curvy self to the empty space just behind Themba, gently rubbing his back as Adesanya said anything he could to calm the furious Themba. I decided it would be better to give them some space, so I headed to the hallway and stood among the guards posted there.

"Will Candidate Morris be okay for the campaign speech?" worried the promoter whose eye bags rivaled Themba's own.

"He always pulls through when he needs to," I affirmed.

"Okay good, could you let him know it's almost time. I'm afraid to go in there," she sighed. The small, frail alabaster-skinned woman fidgeted with the pencil she usually kept tucked behind her ear. Knowing Themba, she was probably right to not go in there.

Read more: https://xumat.substack.com/s/world-of-too-the-last-president

Xūmat Plūto

No Pride in Any Nation I want to kiss you on a ruined Tower, Patriarch's control... History names him Rajapaksa, who was he but in memory a bloody mark, a tyrant Did we erase the borders we created, Or will my brain Call me a slur...Will I remember a protest where my identity was made criminal...?

(They chanted against a ruling family, but why did you use my insults...?) let me kiss you on That former place where the Burning took hold, No danger of a 365 A hovering over our lips, the fascist had his lapdogs among the crowd, We wanted no fight But with our tears and words...love me queerly in the Whispering of histories... shall I hold you under a banner then, Torn and burned memories A flag with the old feline destroyed forever...no swords where there is care...

Where cats once drew lines in a once-nation with their claws And love in the sharing of history, my beloved.

I want more affection Let that be our revolution, Am I loving you in a dream made from the carcass of a Buddha, polluted by lion's blood, where politics was always the humanity's struggle but did I ever see it In that former life, that history, What was class, divider of all, where are we in that story...?

Or is this a vision of a once-nation Where wisdom flows out in a flood for there is no policeman where we may choose to love and do we even call this Vision Lanka?

Language is restructured.

I want to kiss you on a ruined place That we once dubbed a nation.

Vasi Samudra Devi

Amphibious Kobe Taylor Natachu

Clouds are my ancestors Hidden within their life-giving bounty, I descended in the form of rain droplets My essence soaked into soils of red clay Sheltered beneath geographies of many before me Waiting for my next transformation I become dormant Song of frog mix with the steady rhythm of rain creating a symphony of gratitude Soils hum alongside their performance as I feel myself come into being Not quite a seed but an egg formed from sky and soil I am born out of merging worlds Nestled in arms of soil they whisper I am the sun I part stormclouds who brought moisture to this village Create amidolanne that adorns father sky as they gaze upon their newest child This downpour floods mother soil now saturated in life becomes my playground Concealed by murky waters, I exist out of the focus Safe from the hunger of birds who feast upon those so new to this world Those who could not learn fast enough that to be visible is to risk one’s future Despite a tail still foreign, I learn to swim out of necessity As time passes, the world beyond mine encased in water beacons my attention What exists beyond everything I’ve ever known? …

New growth is a curious matter when I have only known water Wet and slippery, this realm embraced my fluidity unable to contain my movements Embodiments beyond this present form exist beyond moisture I dream of being closer to my ancestors who loom overhead casting a blanket of shadow I crave the warmth of Yaddokya Datchu’s rays upon this hidden body I wish for mobility beyond the confines of water beginning to recede I know the world of water can no longer support my budding self as Metamorphosis has begun Gills that once filtered oxygen now struggle in lieu of the formation of lungs Respiration unable to transpire under the weight of this world Generated limbs experience the soft earth that once cradled my belly Pushing me towards the edge of my reality I break the surface No longer submerged soils hold this soft body What might this rebirth entail when death was more a possibility than futurity As skies merge, thunderclouds birthed from contrast saturate air with the hum of static Creation rains down, cleansing my body anew as I am introduced to the sun once more Familiar this moment feels as I now take part in the creation of new life Song spills from my throat greeting precipitation that finds refuge in soil My heart beats in unison with the falling rain as I gaze upon a towering stalk of corn Relatives who both rely on the gift of clouds that now dissipate into ozone Heart touches earth knowing I have found my middle place once more …

We are told to be people of summer Those who have an affinity to water Water is who I descend from, who all dakkya:kwe trace their lineage to From this moisture, I have experienced many revisions An amphibious being equipped to survive multiple landscapes Gifted with transformation and ability to acclimate My domain exists between a matrix of land, water, and sky Blessed with survivance yet my softness has remained In times questioning my existence I remember Ulhonanne does not judge their creations Each state a necessity to form new ways of touch once unavailable Beginning as egg of possibility unaware of where their life path would lead them Change is what saved me yet I still fear their illusive tendencies I focus on the loss of a tail that propelled me through water Yet ignore the legs that allow me to traverse land Transformation is only feared by those whose change meant the end of their worlds The end may come with pain that never truly dissipates but there is also creation In this way, there is never truly an end We simply exist as another being ready to be loved by the world of the next I'm ready to be loved...

a queer reading of malin kundang

that is to consider the princess with long black hair just like him gave him a buzzcut that’s like him / i’ve never visited west sumatra but often their yelling transports me i wonder what he thought about love if it is sacrifice like yearly traditions to maintain a status quo so you don’t end up a sheep (so you remain a son but not) / i shouldn’t be in this, he thought on the ship his mother gave him her dress to wear —maybe that’s why he denied her i’m sick of all this are you real when are you gonna for me he borrowed a sailor’s vest said he was cold (i don’t know what he went for but education seems important so let’s go with that) / when i was twelve i read how bandages are painful i looked up binders and maybe i should do that again back then they had little to work with the princess of course rescued him she showed him love with no denial called him a perfect husband—boy /

Tan Arsa Sagara

turn him into stone but know his body is his to define is not yours

Artificial Women E gollo hari Artificial women, Says a trans woman of a trans woman to a trans woman, these Lines that we draw, our bodies in flux, A cishet’s erasure of deep-seated gender, So everything special about me comes from a bottle?

“Trans wenne kawadda” “Boy kenekge moona wage” “Still no boobes” But I’m not like the other trans girls…

“Thama trans wela nedda?”

What IS a gender, do I trans into or am I trans and born, how unqueerly did they fuck up your language and labels?

Is there even a line between being and becoming, whose language constructs the trans as they should be or are you just a victim of this cishet binary…

Is the tongue in your head the patriarch perversity wiping out with its venom, our trans body poetry?

Api hari artificial women yeah… and I’m addicted to my prescriptions, In love with pills and needles, I am mythology made flesh beyond a cis binary’s evils, New tits fight away at a strange case of dysphoria, I am of and beyond science, testosterone in memoria!

Woman’s body yet not a body, figure sculpted from water in being and becoming, I’m liminality’s daughter!

TRANSformation is my language, philosophically TRANSition through TRANS-enby ideology, I am the crawl space in between spaces, and comfort in uncomformity, And How unqueerly did they fuck up your language and labels, your trans body is the poem that erases this binary.

I’m not like other trans girls and neither is any other trans girl.

Mama hari artificial woman thamai…

But only as an ideology, a construct of humanity.

Watch/listen here: https://www.instagram.com/tv/CVc4GV0oeI0

Vasi Samudra Devi "E gollo hari" is Sinhala for "They are very". "Trans wenne kawadda" means, "When are you going to transition medically" but there is a loss in translation between languages here in Sinhala you "become trans" when you are on HRT (accidental transmedicalism that the whole community abides by unquestioningly out of ignorance), and "Boy kenekge moona wage" means "Your face is like a boy", meaning you do not "pass" for a woman. Accidentally problematic concepts that ARE problematic because the language doesn't have the equipment nor the necessity to regularly deal with that reality. "Thama trans wela nedda" (Have you not medically transitioned yet?) "Mama hari artificial woman thamai" (I am indeed a very artificial woman) "Api hari artificial women yeah" (We are very artificial women, yeah)

What I Feel Loss For What I feel loss for, have not known merely yearned for: fluency in my language.

I've heard that once the skies were thick with birds the rivers thick with fish their immediacy-but I haven't seen this in my lifetime.

Yet.

Fern Golden

Another Hunger Artist He stared at the words on the flickering screen: I wanna look like what I am but I don’t know what someone like me looks like.

I mean—when people look at me I want them to think, that is a philosopher, that has their own interpretation of happiness. That’s what I am.

It was by someone named Lou Sullivan. He didn’t recognize the name, but liked the sound of Lou. They were thirteen at the time it was written. Maybe that’s why they call it a second puberty.

Others simply couldn’t understand it was not simply the urge to reduce, but desire that the reduction had already taken place. By the single light in the room a rose blemished the pink tinge of thorn against bloody thumbs. Fearing no discovery, fearing no evil, the boy took root in the assurance that such a scar was scarcely noticed by anybody. Long groans which fall to sleep, deeply until the shadows save the day. Making nice with K. in the groupchat, hardly visible in the procession of chibi eyes, disfigured bodies.

There were times when it was a pleasure, then. Being made a fetish: a ritual object, an icon.

Being, metaphysical. No more than a commodity. It was the comments. Honest perversion.

Deprecation. The violence of fantasy. Immanence. Letters and packages through the mail.

Collars, handcuffs, and whips. Erasure in the way they want, and to become that want, so much less oneself. K. knew what to do to help, and bored the pallet with trick locks so he might escape unharmed. Watchful eye, blinking red light. The assurances of strangers. How much less of him to ever know. What must be disappeared to make it so?

So he would dress in every dream they made. With leather or flannel, boots or clear plastic straps. They wanted him in dresses and camoflage briefs, skirts and vintage navel jackets. The whimper of his voice as they groomed him was often followed by a hollow chime. He collects the piles of clothes from his floor, over to the walk-in closet. He reminds himself that he must buy more hangers the next time that he leaves the flat.

In the kitchen the pan is rust to shit. A pat of butter melts into a sheen of flat, bubbling smoke. He cracks two eggs into the depths. Their mucous turns to white in the flush of heat and oil.

Presence and absence. The yolks form two perfect circles which resemble in that instant an unborn child, twins that yet will be. He cries aloud, and tosses them all into the sink.

D.M. Rice

by Thangam Rajinibala

Mush Runes

Kiana Marrie Mayo

I drew this to express my view of the life cycle, as well as the 7 chakra system. I love wordplay, and the contrast between malleability (mush) and solidity (runes) is the resulting title. This is inspired by my spiritual journey, as well as the people and forces guiding me through it.

Each of the mushrooms represents a chakra: Red is the Muladhara (the root) for stability, Orange is Svadhisthana (the sacral) for sexuality and creativity, Yellow is the Manipura (the solar plexus) for willpower and ego, Green is the Anahata (the heart) for love and compassion, Blue is the Vishuddha (the throat) for formation of words and vibrations, Purple is the Ajna (the third eye) for insight, and Violet is the Sahasrara (the crown) for cosmic connection beyond simple explanation.

Across from each respective mushroom, are symbols that represent each chakra as well. As we rise from bottom to the top, the mushrooms become more dream-like and divine, and so do their respective materials: A boulder sits still through everflowing waters, displaying its solidity and groundedness. Above and beside it, are two disks - one blue, one magenta - that intersect to form the Vesica Piscis, to symbolize the creative power of both masculine and feminine energies being in balance. Ascending upward, we find two wads of money.

Money can fuel an ego both positively and negatively. Floating upwards, we see a heart. A heart overflowing with love can give one "life". But it can also ooze toxicity, if out of balance. Piano Keys float somewhat-formlessly as it sits across from the mouth of the mushroom. The freedom to form melody and structure reinforce the powerful combinations of words, which can form the vibrations of manifesting. A window pane floats just above the keys, complementing the third eye mushroom as eyes are said to be the windows to the soul. As we reach the pinnacle, a Pyramid levitating upside down meets a mushroom reminiscent of a UFO. The higher we go, the less grounded things appear, however that doesn't have to be bad; For me. It represents lowering my protective armor and being open to new ideas and dimensions of life.

She Voices the Fog Ts'e/q'i, nutiha, jitshla, q'u tsa'i.

One, two, a little bit, that's enough.

------Where is the moon?

Holding all of the snow?

What else might I be?

Vanishing snow?

Where else lives Dujemi?

She voices the fog?

Who else might I be?

Vanishing fog?

What else does snow do?

Returns to cumulus?

Who else might we be?

Bursting of cumulus?

Why Loon wears a vest?

Why did the man pay?

What else might we be?

For what must we pay?

Fern Golden

Antiphon

sleevecutter moondrinker spellcaster

sleevecutter moondrinker soulbreather

GVGK Tang

night crawls, and you turn the screen that growls to the sound of guitars and synths and friends. "today", says one, "i finished that hundred-hour anime. a bit tedious, but the main character is a cutie! if she was my wife" (his girlfriend also typed along) "if she was my wife i'd give her a hundred kisses every day, and every night we'd sing our special song". "the shrink changed my dosages, and now every time i take 20mg of Lexapro along with the Aristada.

100$ a box, but i still feel the ticking of clocks", says a second. "my nerves hurt", says a third. you, sitting in the dark, feel yourself the pain that all wipes, but still you type: "tell me more".

katharina

t o s t p e s c e r e n R n ais s a Rest Stop Rem My bloodshot eyes feel like they’re filled with coffee grounds I scratch quietly at my itchy eyelids.

I shrug away the whys flapping around the edges of my psyche No time for whys now… the machine never stops and so neither can I. Man, I hate sleeping in cars.

I’m on a greyhound passing through podunk towns in a flyover state One of them is like the other in these states that never matter between election years.

We pass a rest stop and I’m grateful for the dark The feeble glow of cellphones around me isn't enough to illuminate the tears forming in pools in my collar bones I wish my bones would turn to dust and I could blow away from the memories that wash over me like a bucket of blood in a fucked up horror movie I feel the jarring sensation of rumble strips as my dad swerves tiredly to pull into a rest area.

I can smell our tiny car, stinking of unwashed bodies of the four of us, stale food and something antiseptic, probably bleach? Mom always smelled like bleach, she did her best to Keep everything sanitized and clean for her baby. That’s me How did I get here!? I grind my fist into my eyes trying to shock my mind back to the present… but the flashback bears down on me With unbridled intensity… I'm lost in sights and smells that existed 25 years ago… mom taking my sticky little hand and walking me into the rest area, helping me wash up with a warm washcloth in the bathroom sink, it's late and it’s quiet except for the buzz of the mosquito zapper and the roar of the trucks parked all in a row outside. Mom fills up a gallon of water for us to drink and one for the car which sometimes overheats. I'm sleepy and anxious ‘cause we’ve been riding all day… daddy is taking us to somewhere new because the lord was leading him…

I wished the lord would lead daddy to buy us a house so I could have a bed and go to school.

I'm released from the grips of the memory and my face is wet and my breath laborious, but I'm fine… I'm back… I have a home With a partner I love and if I can help it, I'll never sleep at a rest stop again.

vagabondgyal

Journal of a Confused... Person #1

#2

#3

by Sammi Jacobs

G I E N R

Verse 2

Verse 1 I don’t need ya, don’t want your love I said I don’t need ya.

I had to let it go my feet were sinking in deep snow I knew I could feel it in the air but I was too fuckin dumb to care i guess i really was the one left unaware but i was there laid bare

Hey Valentine Remember me?

The man from cloud nine His love has died pity me I Watched it flatline I don’t need ya, want your love I said I didn’t need ya. you had me lose control and then you spun me and let go.

You just left me seeping in dispare you act like you were to numb to care you act like you were left completely unaware but I was there laid bare Chorus You can’t hold reign over me you can’t control who i’m gonna be You locked me away You hid me so I couldn’t see Ripped me away then you burned me where I frayed (oh)

Chorus You can’t hold reign over me you can’t control who i’m gonna be You locked me away You hid me so I couldn’t see Ripped me away then you burned me where I frayed (oh) You can’t hold reign over me I know my heart’s on my fuckin sleeve I had to fight the only enemy i couldn’t see Right there in front of me

You can’t hold reign over me I know my heart’s on my fuckin sleeve I had to fight the only enemy i couldn’t see Right there in front of me

Outro Hey Valentine Remember me?

The man from cloud nine his love has died pity you, you Watched it flatline

Listen here: https://open.spotify.com/track/7dMNjZ3qRKOWNTAO26Iw3C

Xūmat Plūto

by squid

Him I love the thought of him.

This pure, untouched and unsullied image of him that I hold inside my heart.

Completely correct in my mind, it has been filled with moments of nothing but communication that brought us together. It brings logic to this beautiful relationship.

He stole the sun and kept it in his soul; it keeps him warm, it keeps us warm. He has that smile, the one that acts as sunshine peeking through the storm clouds, it makes you feel as if you're growing, like April's blossoms.

Every time I see it, I feel the need to reach towards it, a warm wash of heat coming over me. His eyes are the very earth and all of its comfort, its rolling seas of tears, and quakes that can rock your soul.

He has an air of calm. He could make me tell him anything with those eyes if only he’d ask me for more. His soft, dusky hair is always disheveled, but artistically so; as if he’d had just awoken in a great hurry, unable to tame his short coils.

He appears to me, only for me to see him in this way. He is me, I am him. I love him, and every day we become closer, we become one.

Bunnibee

by Ezio

creators (1/2) ava (she/her) is a Black transfeminine lesbian interested in psychoanalysis, black transfeminist nihilism, poetry, the destruction of euromodernity, and the World writ large.

Bunnibee (he/they) is a fat disabled black transman doing his best to love himself! bunniebunners.carrd.co :: Carrollton, TX D.M. Rice (they/he) is a writer from Dallas, Tx, PhD candidate at the University of Essex, and co-editor in chief of Sybil journal (sybiljournal.com). Twitter @quizlemon :: UK Ebony (they/them) is a Black disabled gender nonconforming trans femme trying their best to resist, liberate and prosper. Twitter @gbzed :: NYC Ezio (he/it) is a disabled, mixed afro-brazilian, syrian-lebanese jewish romani intersex nonbinary transmasc immigrant who loves drawing t4t love and joy Twitter @winxclubreject :: Ontario, Canada Fern Golden (they/them) is a neurodivergent Dena'ina Athabaskan poet from Alaska, writes about healing and wellness, culture and language, and mindful ecology. Twitter @ferngoldenpoems :: Alaska katharina (she/her) is a poet & musician from brazil. tumblr.com/miss-ereignis, Twitter @dieniemandrose, TikTok/Instagram @beinghershdow :: niterói Kiana Marrie Mayo (she/they) is a cinematographer, photographer, writer, and music producer who's heavily inspired by Sacred Geometry. Twitter @kianamarrie, Instagram @kiana.marrie :: Pittsburgh, PA Kobe Taylor Natachu (all pronouns) is Shiwi, Diné, and Katishtya Łhamana. :: Marys River Kalapuya Lands (Oregon) Lavi (she/her) is a woman who loves life and life loves her right back.

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creators (2/2) Máte Vargas (they/elle) is a queer non-binary Mexican filmmaker, photographer and visual artist based in Mexico City. Instagram @noh.manches :: Mexico City Mordecai (Xūmat Plūto) Jackson (he/they) is a Musician, Author, and menace to Cis-iety. linktr.ee/Xumat.mdj, Twitter/TikTok/Instagram @Xumat_Mdj :: Detroit, MI Sam Wise (they/them) is a Black, neurodivergent, disabled Agender femme digital artist and hobbyist writer. cjoatbysamwise.com :: West Des Moines, IA (Looking to move to Maryland by the end of December.)

Sammi Jacobs (they/she) is a Black queer trans non-binary woman creating relatable stories in multiple mediums. Instagram @noct_art_ :: Baton Rouge, LA squid (they/them) is a nonbinary black/hispanic artist. kinglykoopa.carrd.co :: PNW Tan Arsa Sagara (they/them) is not a dream and boasts a peculiar reputation.

Twitter @tanarsas :: Melbourne Thangam Rajinibala (he/him) Twitter @tamarind_soda Vasi Samudra Devi (she/they) is a hopelessly gay artist who wants to see the world change. Instagram @_vasi_samudra_devi :: Colombo, Sri Lanka ~~~ vagabondgyal (xe/xer) is a health & healing professional, mixed media artist, activist, and poet with a passion for people. Instagram @copaceticchaos :: Potawatomi Land (Kalamazoo, MI) GVGK Tang (any pronouns) is a public historian and community organizer with a background in digital humanities and media studies. Facebook/Twitter @gvgktang :: Philadelphia, PA

how to submit the t4t project is a zine by/for/about trans artists & storytellers of color. we are BIPOC, disabled, fat, femme, heaux, and poor centered. we seek collaborators of disparate experiences. we prioritize new and emerging trans creators of color. submissions may utilize diverse mediums and genres - essays, interviews, memoirs, fiction, poetry, art, media, and more - to explore... ~ memory and meaning-making ~ folklore and mythology ~ trans identity in diaspora ~ self-care and community care ~ intracommunal, intersectional solidarities ~ anything and everything

your work is valid and valuable. all submissions will be published. you retain all rights. submissions are accepted on a rolling basis. there is no deadline. submit here: https://forms.gle/98X7zUuaGWV9YsEL8

t4tproject.carrd.co @t4tproject