Invisible
I feel invisible
Invisible to him
Invisible to them
Invisible to her
Invisible like an old, used sweater
Invisible like the breeze
Invisible like my unease
I feel invisible because no one notices me
No one
Except for you

Why do we like laughter?
Is it because it’s joyful?
Is it because it’s fulfilling?
Is it because it’s fun?
Is it because it is any of these?
For me, it’s none.
It is because it is distracting.
Distracting from the bad
Distracting from the good
Distracting from the in-between
Laughter is a way to just be…
Yourself.
Without the bad.
Without the good.
Without the in-between.
Laughter is a way to just be…
With the joke.

Transgender is more than a word, it is me
Righting the wrongs on your body, until you feel like the real you
Answering the same generic questions when you come out to new people
Not feeling quite right unless you're in that one gender-confirming outfit
Saying you are different, but never being heard by those few people
Giving people a pass on your name and pronouns because your scared to fix it
Ending year-long relationships because they don't accept you for you
Never being able to walk around shirtless because you can't afford top surgery
Determined to be happy when you look in the mirror one day in the future
Excitedly researching surgeons and colleges for your future
Randomly hating your body and having to mindlessly focus on something else

Blank
I'm a blank canvas
In that little pink blanket
Sat next to my sisters
Held in your arms
Cared for by your hands
Loved by your touch
I'm a blank canvas
So why
Why do you tell me to be ‘a perfect lady’
Why do you only buy me dresses and skirts
Why do you yell at me for wearing ‘boys clothes’
Why
I was a blank canvas
Now you’ve tried to paint me with pink
But I've painted over me with blue.

Happy
Sad
Anxious
Mad
Thrilled
Bummed
Fulfilled
Numbed
These feelings.
These thoughts.
These emotions.
These are what make us human
These actions
These mistakes
These are what make us unique to one another
These are what make us, us
These are what make you, you.

I breath
I stand
I walk
I run
I live
I live for me
I live for my dreams
I live for my hopes
I live for the future
I live for the possibilities
I live for the chance
I live for the plans
I live for the want
I live for the need
I live for me

The cold stone planted in the ground.
The wet grass surrounding the freshly dug area.
The soft dirt traveling six feet deep, and deeper.
The howling wind wanting to brush my face, but feeling nothing.
The cries of others wishing they could wake me from my eternal slumber.
The date of my first day carved indefinitely.
The date of my final day is placed beside it.
The deadname wrongly given, engraved eternally but never having sounded quite right.
The word ‘Daughter’ lasting forever, but never having felt like it quite fit.
My worst fear is to die with the wrong name on my tombstone.
My worst fear is to be buried and remembered wrong.
To not be remembered as me.

I love you.
I trust you.
You say.
You say I'm your daughter.
You say I'm broken.
You say I am ill.
You say I'm sinning.
You say I'm wrong.
I say.
I say I'm your son.
I say I'm better than ever.
I say I'm perfectly fine.
I say I'm not religious.
I say I'm right.
But it doesn't matter what I say,
You never listen.
You lecture.
I love you.
You say you love me unconditionally.
But this kind of love is conditional.

Look around
Blue skys
Blue seas
Blue eyes
Blue trees
Blue you
Blue me
Blue hue
Blue tea
Blue rose
Blue book
Blue clothes
Blue look
Look around
Color
More than one color
That is what makes life
Color
More than blue
More than you
Look around

What is gender?
What is a girl?
What is a boy?
What makes these people different?
What is pink?
What is blue?
What makes these colors different?
What is it?
Clothes?
Style?
Hair?
Chests?
Pants?
Skirts?
Dresses?
Suits?
­What makes these people different?
You say:
‘Your chromosomes’
But what about ‘x’
What about ‘xxy’
What about ‘xyy’
What about ‘xxxy’
What do you say about these?
Someones genitalia doesn't make them
Someone's chromosomes doesn't make them
What makes a person a person
Is the person.