To a Prince

When I was twenty-three, I hadn't had
sex yet, and thought I wanted to detransition
because I was too faggy and it's more
politically correct to be a dyke.
Such were my problems. But you at twenty-three
were bathing in ice chips in a musty cell,
watching the pinprick of your life go dark.
The trepanation never fully healed,
but even before that you'd been ordering
houses burned down in fits of violent fancy—
thank God my teenage follies never had
a body count—and your last victim was
yourself, Your Highness. Schiller was too kind.
(At least that's what your father would have said.)

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