a dress
a skirt
pink lipstick
that never felt quite like me
baggy pants
baseball cap
dirt and roughhousing
that wasn't quite me either
I was ugly
or at least everyone told me I was
I was too masculine acting
sometimes feminine features
my chest was too flat to be a real girl
my walk was too swagger infused
my fashion style, too--- not enough cleavage if you know what I mean
apparently a shirt and a pair of pants suddenly made me unattractive to both sexes
both sexes
both
I felt like both
makeup and a baseball cap
flat chest, and a flower skirt
skateboards and hair products galore
looking back,
I was always fluid.
the gender waters in which I was drowing
I was only drowning in because I can swim in both currents
fluid
fluid
fluid
****
Living
Under
Imposed
Doctrines

what happens when i no longer like your pink, sweet, version of me you’ve curated?
what would happen if i erased all colour completely?

no, i’m not talking about choosing blue over pink or yellow or green
“gender neutral” clothing isn’t any shade on the colour wheel

i’m talking about if i never associated the colour pink with femininity
and blue with masculinity

and yellow and green with “gender neutrality”

what if my life was just void of colour?

like if i were to say i didn’t feel like a girl nor a boy
nor the brief possibility of both

i just feel
like that grey space in between the most diluted shades on the colour wheel

would you still force me to call myself “daughter”?

When I was little you told me I could be anything I wanted.
No one looked twice when I shopped in the boys section,
When I wore dark blues and grays instead of pink,
When I played in the mud or with other boys,
When I refused to hear my hair down,
Or when I siad I thought I was a boy.

When I got older you no longer thought it cute but we're not worried quite yet.
You told me that the lumps on my chest were beautiful despite my protests.
You told me that I would change and thag being a tomboy was temporary.
You told me that one day I would love dresses, pink, and makeup.
You told me that I woulf grow out of it soon enough even though I told yoy I wouldn't.

In the final years of high school you began to worry and I began to breathe as things became clear.
You noticed that not once have I worn a dress since you stopprd forcing me to.
You noticed my web pages I left open that read Top surgery or Testosterone.
You noticed the lumps on my chest grew smaller as I bought better binders.
You noticed my hair steadily becoming shorter after every single haircut.
You noticed the letter on the counter that read a few simple word. If yoy haven't noticed... I'm transgender.

dysphoria
is sitting in front of a mirror
for 30 straight minutes
picking out the tiny things
that make people misgender you.

trying to pull back your chest
pretending you have a flat one
scratching down your biceps
because maybe if they were more toned
you would be called a boy
clawing at your thighs
because if they were small and beautiful
then people might think you are a he

dysphoria
is sobbing while doing all of that
the mirror is now your enemy
giving you a million things to change
but you have no way of changing it.

maybe sleeping will help?
that is if you get past your thoughts
of your disgusting body
calm down for a bit to even let you slip into somber.

but then dreams come
you dream of being on testosterone
having a beard with a deep voice
maybe even your top surgery
where you no longer have to deal with having a chest

but you wake up
no way of getting these things
it haunts you for days.

dysphoria
is the mirror no longer being
a place to just fix up your hair or do your make up
it’s where your demons live
passing by a reflective surface
and seeing even a glance of your body
makes you want to die and tear it apart

dysphoria
is someone brushing against your thigh
and you wanting to puke everything
you have ever eaten
because they touched your body
a disgusting girls body
it can’t be mine
but I hate it none the less

dysphoria
is someone taking out your soul and choking it
the lack of breath comes from a panic attack
your nails clawing and digging into your skin
because this can’t be you. this isn’t mine
this body needs fixing
so does this soul.

Just because I’m vulnerable
doesn’t mean I’m weak.
Just because I don’t cry in front of you
doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings.
Just because I don’t speak up
doesn’t mean I don’t have anything to say.
Just because I don’t react
doesn’t mean I don’t know how to tear you apart.
Just because I smile
doesn’t mean you can walk on me.
Just because I don’t hurt you back
doesn’t mean I lack masculinity.
Just because you say I am fat
doesn’t make me ugly. Not uglier than your soul.
Just because you say I’m feminine
doesn’t make my gender redundant.

I’m more a man than you’ll ever be, choking on your insecurities.
Getting kicks out of putting other people down,
everytime you feel threatened by the vastness of the world.

Just because I don’t stop you
doesn’t mean you can go back to doing what you did.

Just because I am me.
And not the version of me,
You want me to be.
Just because I am me.

And just because
I don’t roar doesn’t mean I’m not strong.
I’m more than capable of ripping you to shreds,
with my weaponry of words.

Just because.

For you, it’s a simple question.
You can just say,
“Obviously, I’m a girl.”
“Duh, I’m a boy”
But for me,
It’s a question that burns
Through my mind.
It’s like an identity quiz
Where all the answers are wrong,
No matter how much you decide
To change them.

I’m twelve years old.
They’ve just handed me a bright white paper.
Are you a boy or a girl?
That’s the question they ask on every evaluation sheet.
Are you a boy or a girl?
I can only sit there,
Pencil tapping nervously against the table.
I stare at those two white boxes.
Am I a boy or a girl?
What is so wrong with my mind,
That I am not able to choose one?

I’m five years old,
The teacher asks us to make the flower our favorite color.
Pink or blue?
I don’t want to choose,
So I split the flower in the middle
One half pink
One half blue.
The teacher comes and says
“At least you tried.”
What does that mean?
I put effort into
coloring inside the lines
And making it
Perfect.
Beautiful.
Interesting.
Different.
And all she can say is
“At least you tried.”
Am I only allowed to choose
one?

I’m eleven years old.
I’m looking through my drawer,
Picking out clothes to wear.
The black shirt
Or the white one?
They both look nice with the pants I’ve chosen.
I know I can’t wear both,
Because only one shirt can fit on my body.
Only one.
I hastily pick the white shirt,
Only to realize
They didn’t match as well as I thought they had.

I’m twelve years old,
Still staring at that sheet.
Am I a boy or a girl?
I searched hard,
Only to find
There’s not a single thing that’s wrong
With my mind.

What makes me a girl?
Is it my hair,
Or my face,
Or the way I love to paint and make pottery?
Or maybe it’s the way all my friends are girls.
The way I love painting nails.

What makes me a boy?
Is it the way I refuse to wear a dress or skirt,
Or the way you can always find me practicing archery
In the hot summer?
The way I hate pink.
How I always play soccer and basketball.

Black or white?
Fight or flight?
Pink or blue?
Boy or girl
Boy or girl,
Boy or girl?
Why not both?

So, you ask,
How would I explain it?
Well certainly, as something
Not fun.
It's like...
It's like carrying a leach around with you.
When I walk, I can feel it,
It is a dead weight on my chest,
******* the life from my arms,
Making my hands and face slender,
What should be full and strong
It's like...
It's like when you're sick to your stomach.
That feeling of tar in your gut,
But instead of being isolated, it's everywhere
Throughout your body,
It makes you feel sick everywhere.

This is how I explain dysphoria:
Have you ever looked in the mirror,
And wanted to just rip all your hair out?
When a bad hair day gets out of hand,
Have you ever felt the need to just start over?
Even when you tear out a clump of hair
And your scalp looks raw and a little ******,
But you keep going anyway,
Just to get rid of that stupid haircut?
...no?
Alright, how about,
When you're watching the outtakes of a 3-D animated movie,
the scenes that have "gone wrong",
When the girl's eyes are far too big and pop out of her face,
Her arms are disconnected from her chest,
Her head moves but her teeth do not,
And you just want to scream "DELETE IT!"
Because it's obvious that someone has ******* up here,
And this nightmare, this fever dream
Is not what they intended their creation to look like.

Alright, well have you ever
Done a pencil drawing?
And you've put a lot of time and effort into it,
You're so proud,
This is one of your best works,
But something about it is just off?
You might not be able to tell what it is,
This will bother you for a long time,
You will spend hours on end thinking
About what exactly separates this piece of art from everything else,
What it is that keeps it from perfection...
Until suddenly one day, you realise,
You notice exactly what's wrong,
You grab an eraser to fix your mistake
But then, oh no
Your eraser was *****,
And when you tried to rub out that single wonky line,
You leave a huge black smudge across your paper
And now there's no way to get rid of it
All your work on this piece, ruined,
And you're really upset,
You were so proud of this drawing,
It was so close to being perfect,
It could have been so beautiful,
It was almost perfect, but now...

But now, it's wrong.
It just looks wrong
It just IS wrong,
It wasn't meant to look like this
I am trying to explain as simply as I can
That this body is wrong,
That it wasn't meant to look like this,
That it wasn't meant to BE like this!
Don't you understand?
This is how I explain dysphoria:
Have you ever looked in the mirror
And wanted to just rip your chest out?
Do you ever see your body, your parts seeming broken,
Your chest, legs, hear the sound of your voice
And just scream "DELETE IT!"
Because it's obvious that someone
Has ******* up
Someone was using a ***** eraser
When they created me, erased me,
And they've left smudges, mistakes, that I
Cannot get rid of,
And however hard I try to pretend
That I don't care,
I do,
And I still feel the need to erase them.
These leaches that I carry around,
They drain me,
And I was so proud of myself
I,
This body...

It could have been so beautiful

Seventeen-year old boy
With oestrogen caught in his chest,
With flags that he wears like a crest,
Defining his torture with pink and blue stripes
Boy,
Hiding in plain sight

Sixteen year old "girl",
Asked what she wants for her birthday,
Lost for words, she has nothing to say
"On my birthday I want to not
Feel dysphoria" Replies filled with sighs and a nod
Girl,
Faking her smiles,
Pretending she's fine
When she hears the word "Girl"

Ten year old "boy",
He's sick of hearing the difference,
Sick of the snickers and whispers that call him
"Tomboy"
As if he's only half-trying
As if he doesn't hide, crying,
He doesn't know who he is,
But he's sick of criticisms
Because
He's not girly enough,
But not boyish enough,
And everyone insists, one day you'll grow up
And you'll be a real girl
A n d  
           I
Was, for a while,
I learned how to smile,
With genuine contentment, I thought
I am enough...

But then I grew up.

When I look in the mirror,
What do I see?
I see a 'girl' i see everything I'm not.

Wearing dresses to concerts
And makeup to parties
Why can't I wear a suit?

Being eloquent and fancy
"Dont mess up your hair!"
Why can't my hair be shorter?

Nails manicured to perfection
Painted a hot pink
Why can't they be painted blue..?


Its like tar
Sinking into my stomach
I can feel it weighing me down

I cant speak, I can't tell.
I can't get help for no one knows
How do I get rid of it..?


I grip my hair with both hands and pull
I can f e e l it tearing
I can f e e l my head bleeding
But i dont care because at least my hair is shorter, and at least some pressure is gone.

I paint with the silver and watch as my canvas turns red.
I make sure it goes across the stream and not with the flow..
I make sure to clear up afterwards.

"Why cant you be normal?"
"What's with the weird attitude"
"Its just a p h a s e"

I run home crying after school.
Its only 3pm
My parents get home at 5 pm

I go to the bathroom and grab my mom's medications.

I grab the silver, sharp-edged paintbrush.

I grab my journel and start to tell my story..

By the time my parents got home..

Their son was too far gone.