I never, not once,
thought that I would be able
to do something
like that.
But the way his fingers
traced over my skin,
or how he leaned in and whispered
delicately, into my ear.
                          "You're Mine For Tonight"
His fingers traced
along my jawline
every time having a
different feeling
of security,
wilderness,
passion.
Maybe I liked him because
of the fact that he's never
been with a guy.
No other guy has ever
touched his perfect torso,
had their fingers tousled
in his hair.
No other guy has had him
how I have him right now.
He's naked
while being in clothes.
He's true
when he's lying.
My fingers grazed over
where the bullet left a scar
on his perfect chest.
I touched every ab
on his stomach.
Then traced the outline
of every vein on his arm,
his lips were luscious
and plump
and looked as if they tasted of
honey.
We're not supposed to be doing
things like this.
We are in a home for the crazies,
to get people like us off the streets.
We are here to keep people like
our parents,
safe from the true reality of
the world.
To keep people like our parents
unaware of the fact there are
people like us who don't want to live,
who crave the sight of a beaded line
on their arm or leg.
Who crave the drugs that make them
feel happy.
Who crave the life of a normal person
Who doesn't have to be the most popular guy
in school.
We don't exist in our parent's worlds.
We don't have a place there.
So they lock us up here.
Where we have unholy thoughts,
and an addiction to the taste of lead.
                     "Checks"
The nurse pulls me away from my thoughts.
What I wouldn't give for my dreams
to come true.
"Those checks sure can get to be really annoying.
"I know, but that's a requirement when you are deemed crazy."
I say.
There we were,
him sitting on my bed,
me sitting on my chair.
Both fully clothed.
Both unaware of our thoughts
towards each other.
But both aware,
that nothing will ever happen.

When I was fifteen years old I came home from school one day and wrote a poem instead of cutting myself.
The next day I didn't write a poem.
Eighteen only wrote poetry in red.
Nineteen crawled under their desk with the lights turned off.
Twenty had panic attacks.
But thirteen still loved the world.
And ten only cared about going out to play.
And nine never thought growing up to be a gender would hurt so much.
But twenty-one can't breathe in this skin anymore.
And twenty-one doesn't want a twenty-two anymore.
And nineteen tried to pretend these feelings weren't real.
And fifteen tried to eradicate all the feelings altogether.
And seventeen just cried a lot.

My years have come together to unfold me into a disaster.
I am broken even in my most whole parts.
I am empty even on my most alive days.
If you send out a SOS into my chest the sound will ring off into its empty chambers and only answer itself.

These parts feel like a lie I am giving to this world,
but it doesn't throw me back a sneer,
it pretends it doesn't know.

I am carving my skin with questions,
but it bleeds back no answers,
only trophies in the shape of these scars.

I am clawing myself out,
but the pit feels like quicksand,
the more I want out the more it takes me in.

I am half a person, half a ghost
already burying myself
inside the casket of my own skin.

If these gods were real
they'd have made us of sturdier stuff
than hearts that break apart at the slightest whisper.

We were on the train,
Traveling from Amsterdam back home.
There was this adorable little kid,
He asked me to play with his toy car.
We played for about fifteen minutes,
Before his mom said he had to go,
The little kid was so upset and yelled:
But I want to keep playing with that boy.
He made my day.
He was closer to the true than everyone else,
Correcting his so called mistake.
That adorable little kid made my day by calling me a boy,
And for now one person is enough.

Somewhere there exists a girl.
She is kind, and soft, and sweet,
And a reader, a lover of books.
She would read every one if she could
People say she looks just like her mother.
She doesn't know what to think.

Some place in the world there is a boy.
He is shy, and peaceful, and small,
He is adventurous, dreaming of planets unknown.
He would wander the galaxy forever,
Trailing after him stardust and clouds.
Nobody notices him.

Connecting them is one person.
They are creative, and caring, and bright.
Protective of the people they love,
Even if those people overlook them.
They feel too small to make a difference.
They want to find a purpose.


Three people, so very much alike.
Simalar in so many ways, yet still different,
Each unique in their own right.
All existing on the same Earth.
Seperate, but never apart.
They like being themselves and each other.

The only downside to their lives,
Is that that have to exist together,
Stuck in the same body, unable to change.
Each wishing to fit their own mold.
But they can't leave each other.

Sometimes the Girl in control.
She is the happiest of them,
She loves her body, which amazingly
Fits her, like the perfect glove.
She wished to make the others just as happy.

The In Between doesn't hate their body.
They like how soft they look some days
Like when they can look in between.
But they still feel wrong sometimes.
They don't feel like they can complain.


The Boy has it much worse than them.
When he has control his body is wrong,
The opposite of what he need to exist.
He deals with his problem though.
He binds his chest and wears button ups.
But that doesnt make it right.

Nobody knows that they share.
Most people are content being one thing.
With having a solid identity.
But it wasn't their fault, it is how they are made.
They didn't ask to be a river.
But they still follow the tides.

They wouldn't change who they are.
They get along fine with each aspect of themself
Compensating, trying to feel whole.
They have tricks to help them feel right.
But perfection doesn't exist.

Dysphoria comes as a storm.
Turing the river into a rushing waterfall,
Full of doubt and self-loathing.
Certain things help calm the storm,
But sometimes it just keeps raining.

They push through the floods
Of anxiety and doubt and fear.
Giving themself a bowtie for the Boy,
A beanie for the In Between,
A skirt for the Girl.
They persist.
And they live.

Tempt me

If you can.

If your eyes sparkle,
If you're 6ft2
If your eyes are brown

Tempt me.

Dare me to see you for you, and not for being exactly like

That six foot and two inches of absolute chaos
Like that boy who never takes no for an answer and is never honest and
Doesn't know how to be functional.

It never works.
You all look the same.

And I don't like boys with blue eyes, green,
And anything in between.

Civilized brutality
Stagnant jail cell air choking,
Complex torment.