BlewBirdArt - Hello Poetry

I am thirteen when the mean girls call me weird— I do not shave I do not wear makeup. I do wear basketball shorts and messy ponytails. I am pressured to be her— Aria. I shave relentlessly for the next two years. I am fifteen full of discomfort and anger breaking my bones like they are glass reckless rage— all reckless no brave depraved of a home inside my own skin. I am fifteen when I learn what gender dysphoria is. I am fifteen when I realize I am a boy that I always have and will be a boy. I am fifteen— putting holes in wall and overdosing on advil like it is a sport championing my own self demise. I am fifteen afraid and closeted— I write my name as ALEX on my school assignments I always change it back before I turn them in. I am fifteen convinced everyone loves the girl I am not and will never love me as the boy I actually am. I am sixteen crying on the floor of a psych ward this is my fifth hospitalization in fourteen months. Pretending to be her is killing me. I choke back tears as I tell my mom that I am transgender. She tells me she loves me, and she saw me writing ALEX on my papers. It will take five years for her to let her daughter go. I am seventeen when I am shoved to the floor in a men's bathroom slammed and slurred across the tile— It will not be until six months into Hormone Replacement Therapy that I use the men's public restroom. I am eighteen when my moms boyfriend of the time pulls me aside and tells me I am making a mistake. He would wear his mothers dresses and heels, hiding in her closet all of this is to say this is a phase. When people say that this is a phase— I am sixteen sobbing on linoleum floors covered in cuts wanting nothing more than death if I have to pretend to be her for more than one second longer. I am nineteen hopeful and naive. Voice cracking and hair sprouting I am coming into my own body. I have learned that there are things much worse than needles. I am twenty out of the ashes of abuse and trauma I am finally becoming the man I have always been meant to be.

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Jun 2, 2019

Jun 2, 2019 at 2:27 AM UTC

BlewBirdArt

An Aria

I am thirteen when the mean girls call me weird— I do not shave I do not wear makeup. I do wear basketball shorts and messy ponytails. I am pressured to be her— Aria. I shave relentlessly for the next two years. I am fifteen full of discomfort and anger breaking my bones like they are glass reckless rage— all reckless no brave depraved of a home inside my own skin. I am fifteen when I learn what gender dysphoria is. I am fifteen when I realize I am a boy that I always have and will be a boy. I am fifteen— putting holes in wall and overdosing on advil like it is a sport championing my own self demise. I am fifteen afraid and closeted— I write my name as ALEX on my school assignments I always change it back before I turn them in. I am fifteen convinced everyone loves the girl I am not and will never love me as the boy I actually am. I am sixteen crying on the floor of a psych ward this is my fifth hospitalization in fourteen months. Pretending to be her is killing me. I choke back tears as I tell my mom that I am transgender. She tells me she loves me, and she saw me writing ALEX on my papers. It will take five years for her to let her daughter go. I am seventeen when I am shoved to the floor in a men's bathroom slammed and slurred across the tile— It will not be until six months into Hormone Replacement Therapy that I use the men's public restroom. I am eighteen when my moms boyfriend of the time pulls me aside and tells me I am making a mistake. He would wear his mothers dresses and heels, hiding in her closet all of this is to say this is a phase. When people say that this is a phase— I am sixteen sobbing on linoleum floors covered in cuts wanting nothing more than death if I have to pretend to be her for more than one second longer. I am nineteen hopeful and naive. Voice cracking and hair sprouting I am coming into my own body. I have learned that there are things much worse than needles. I am twenty out of the ashes of abuse and trauma I am finally becoming the man I have always been meant to be.

87

Grab your supplies, two needles, six alcohol pads and the Wonder Woman bandaids you bought to feel brave. Remind yourself to buy a box for mom next time you supermarket shop. Curse under your breath, its left thigh week and you know the left thigh really hates T Message your group chat, Ask them to pump you up so you can ignore needle induced palpitations— are my ribs caging my heart or protecting it? Refocus yourself; now is not the time for existential thoughts Fill the syringe with the eighteen gauge, and then drop that sucker into the ancient bottle of vanilla coke filled with used needles. Change to the twenty-five gauge, refresh your music page. Is it a Queen or All Time Low shot day? Wipe your leg down, not once, not thrice, but five times— As you stare between the needle, your thigh, your needle, and again the thigh. Count to three, One, Two, Three, and in it goes, not so bad—it never is. Repeat every Sunday.

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Feb 12, 2019

Feb 12, 2019 at 6:23 PM UTC

BlewBirdArt

Doing Your Testosterone Shot: A Guide to Second Puberty

Grab your supplies, two needles, six alcohol pads and the Wonder Woman bandaids you bought to feel brave. Remind yourself to buy a box for mom next time you supermarket shop. Curse under your breath, its left thigh week and you know the left thigh really hates T Message your group chat, Ask them to pump you up so you can ignore needle induced palpitations— are my ribs caging my heart or protecting it? Refocus yourself; now is not the time for existential thoughts Fill the syringe with the eighteen gauge, and then drop that sucker into the ancient bottle of vanilla coke filled with used needles. Change to the twenty-five gauge, refresh your music page. Is it a Queen or All Time Low shot day? Wipe your leg down, not once, not thrice, but five times— As you stare between the needle, your thigh, your needle, and again the thigh. Count to three, One, Two, Three, and in it goes, not so bad—it never is. Repeat every Sunday.

35

I if asked you loved me razor-blade silence the blood stained my sweatshirt left behind— just a cutter. I never mattered to you anyways. You left me alone in the dark of your room.

0

Feb 12, 2019

Feb 12, 2019 at 6:18 PM UTC

BlewBirdArt

Silence

I if asked you loved me razor-blade silence the blood stained my sweatshirt left behind— just a cutter. I never mattered to you anyways. You left me alone in the dark of your room.

25

Balance My coworker points out my perfectionism when I’m facing the shelves. spent the last forty-five minutes undoing the asymmetry of everyone else's actions. I do not say anything. I think about how I haven’t take my Prozac in five days enough time for the OCD To reinsert itself. I didn’t sleep for six straight days in September. rewriting my notes compulsively because I messed up, looks a lot like rewriting myself into perfectionism. My serial symmetry— controlled letters looping into the perfect picture a picture those around me cannot get enough of. When I don’t sleep for six days, I see a psychiatrist. I didn’t know anything was wrong, with my harmonic convergence on letters and work and neatness and writing, was abnormal. It's hard to know something is wrong with you when the world labels you: “PERFECTIONIST” I took no issue with the obsessions Because I didn’t know there was an issue at hand. I got the script for Prozac and it rewrote the notes for me. It did not fix everything, but I could breathe for the first time. My symmetry still slips out and I have to fix the mess— Every mess but myself. My life hangs in the balance: I am terrified of not being good enough yet I have to try. I continue to push, I have something to say. My atypical thought pattern will not cease no matter how hard the symmetry tries to knock it down— I must write, paint, draw. It is the only thing that differentiates self care from self medication. I will not drown my sorrows, like those who came before me. The cure for my woes is not at the bottom of a bottle— but maybe it's there when the ink runs out in my pens. Again and again I find myself here: on the precipice of my own creation, on the precipice of my own destruction. I live a black and white balance, There is no grey when it comes to my mental health. It is not like OCD to wait, my proactiveness comes with creation perfectionism waits in the shadows to **** me. I must be better than the parts of me that seek, my own end.

0

Feb 9, 2019

Feb 9, 2019 at 6:33 PM UTC

BlewBirdArt

Balance

Balance My coworker points out my perfectionism when I’m facing the shelves. spent the last forty-five minutes undoing the asymmetry of everyone else's actions. I do not say anything. I think about how I haven’t take my Prozac in five days enough time for the OCD To reinsert itself. I didn’t sleep for six straight days in September. rewriting my notes compulsively because I messed up, looks a lot like rewriting myself into perfectionism. My serial symmetry— controlled letters looping into the perfect picture a picture those around me cannot get enough of. When I don’t sleep for six days, I see a psychiatrist. I didn’t know anything was wrong, with my harmonic convergence on letters and work and neatness and writing, was abnormal. It's hard to know something is wrong with you when the world labels you: “PERFECTIONIST” I took no issue with the obsessions Because I didn’t know there was an issue at hand. I got the script for Prozac and it rewrote the notes for me. It did not fix everything, but I could breathe for the first time. My symmetry still slips out and I have to fix the mess— Every mess but myself. My life hangs in the balance: I am terrified of not being good enough yet I have to try. I continue to push, I have something to say. My atypical thought pattern will not cease no matter how hard the symmetry tries to knock it down— I must write, paint, draw. It is the only thing that differentiates self care from self medication. I will not drown my sorrows, like those who came before me. The cure for my woes is not at the bottom of a bottle— but maybe it's there when the ink runs out in my pens. Again and again I find myself here: on the precipice of my own creation, on the precipice of my own destruction. I live a black and white balance, There is no grey when it comes to my mental health. It is not like OCD to wait, my proactiveness comes with creation perfectionism waits in the shadows to **** me. I must be better than the parts of me that seek, my own end.

63