So tired of this feeling
so tired of just being
so tired of thy place
so tired of my face
so tired of frustration
so tired of humiliation
so tired of instant anger
so tired of constant hunger
so tired of feeble jealousy
so tired of peoples infidelity
so tired of running away
so tired of not knowing what to say
so tired of yo yo emotions
so tired of no go solutions
so tired of being tired
so tired of how my brain's wired
so tired of over thinking
so tired of sober drinking
so tired of appeasing obsessions
so tired of these possessions
so tired of saying no
so tired of staying home
so tired of praying alone
so tired of making excuses
so tired of feeling useless
so tired of restless nights
so tired of this pointless plight
so tired of facing fears
so tired or racing tears
so tired of panic attackss
so tired I can't relax
so tired of anxiety
I guess I'm just tired of me.

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.

Perhaps,
I’ve always been right.
Somewhere. Some place.
My soul has whispered this:
I’m just a fake.
A pretence.
It’s all just a performance
to fit into all society labels.
Right—
A coat of white and black—cliché, right?
But forgetting,
there are always shades of gray.

Where things outside the box of what’s called “right”
don’t always seem so wrong.
A bearer of quiet light would agree.
So I let that settle in.

I act on impulse.
I seek help—but find none.
So I bend. Twist. To fit their gaze.
And behind those locked doors…
I give in.
I numb my way
out of feeling too much
and just never enough
for a world suffused with shattered glasses.

Afterwards…
I lie still.
Let the not-so-strangers come.
Guilt and regret drape my neck
like rocks tied to a chain,
pressing the air from my lungs,
as every breath inhaled—a battle.

Little liquid.
Little sobs.
My face wields them all.
Torn from inside out.
But it stays hidden.

Once, I gave up.
Once, I quit.
I looked in the mirror,
But I couldn't recognize the figure staring back at me—
A failure, a quitter.

My head swelled with thoughts,
Guilt draped my neck like a heavy chain.
My chest tightened, each breath a battle.
My eyes wandered in the silence,
The throbbing of my heart loud enough to be heard across town.

Silent rivers flowed freely, wetting my cheeks.
I turned to the mirror again—
Its cracks mirrored the ones in me.
This time, I was broken, shattered, lost.
I just want to be me.
I want to give my best, but my best has never been enough.

Feelings of low self-esteem creep in.
Guilt shimmers in every word I speak.
Regret follows my every action.
I am frightened of myself—
I have become my worst enemy.

"Help me help us," I whispered, torn—
"You and I, the past and the future—
We can't keep breaking apart."


The silence lingered.
Then, something stirred within me.
A flicker, small but steady.
The mirror didn’t just reflect my pain—
It showed a fighter, bruised but breathing.

I wiped my tears.
I stood a little taller.
Maybe I had lost myself before,
But I could still find her again.

I am not just my failures.
I am not just my regrets.
I am the fire that refuses to go out.
And this time, I won’t quit.

                          Hephzy [D.I.C]