“The Collective Name for a Group of Sad Trans Girls Is Called A Discord”

This poem takes its name from a shitpost on Reddit

All the trans girls I know flock to online spaces
like birds of paradise roosting in front of keyboards,
perched in performance chairs.

They changed their settings to dark mode,
change the color of their screen names,
change their names into Sapphic fragments of themselves
like shattered urns.

Names of flowers.
Inside jokes.
Plays on words.
Garish signals from the lighthouses
stuck like needles into the oceans of our own isolation,
and ethernetted by the fraying umbilical cords of our second births
by the braided waxed, shaved, lasered, and electrolysis'd hairs
of our new puberty.

We post selfies.
We whoop and heart react.
We yearn.
We squabble.
We shitpost and samizdat.

If we ever meet in person,
ever grip the rough carpet of miles between us
and yank each other closer,
we are nervous as prom.

We are glass animals with the cabinet door open
and the children home from school.
We kiss and our teeth bump together.

If a sound wave moves through a medium,
each particle of the medium vibrates 
at the same frequency.

We vibe
at the same frequency
with each chime, each heartbreak,
each new sweating Senator
telling us to crawl back into our blood.

We stockpile and mutual aid.
We advice and we vent.
We HRT and DIY.
We progress pic and private message,
and each click of the keyboard
could be the lock of the front door
could be shoes we've seen in pictures
clipping across our uncleaned floors.

All the trans girls I know have spider webs 
have stakes in every state
have a reason to cry when something happens
no matter where.