I'm cool.
You're cool.
We're cool
It's cool.

We're cool.
It's cool.
I'm cool.
You're cool.

"Hey dude,
you alright in there?"

"Yea man,
it's cool."

It's 3:09am
I'm im the library
Desperately trying to write a research paper:
'LGBT Familes'
How fitting.
Caffeine courses through my veins
Coffee overloads my bladder
Bathroom.
I hate bathrooms.

When you have no gender
The simple act of relieving yourself becomes a chore
The heavy weight of that key decision
Chokes your lungs as you stand outside the doors
Two doors.
Men.
Women.
Not me.

The choice becomes simplified:
While I sometimes pass as a man
I often do not.
I can choose the men's bathroom
The consequence of which could end in physical violence
The same hate I explain through my essay.
The same fear that plagues my community.

The women's restroom is also an option
The consequences likely less dire than the former:
Heavy side eye and the potential of yelling.
A much safer choice.
Obviously.

Per usual, I walk into the women's room.
I take three strides inside.
Then I stop.

I've never used the men's room.
My fear of violent reactions has always won.
Yet at a time like this
How likely is it that someone is inside the men's room?

Now is my chance to face my fears.
Now I have a safe chance at peeing in peace.
In a bathroom potentially more suiting
Of my gender identity
So I turn around.
Let the door slam behind me.

Half a step into the men's room
The smell of rancid ***** hits my senses
Toilet paper liters the stalls
I have missed absolutely nothing in my years in the women's room

Women have nicer facilities
A significantly more advanced hand dryer
Cleanliness
Air freshener
Men do not have these luxuries

Now I question,
Do men not take as good of care of their bathrooms as women do?
Do the workers intentionally prioritize women's sanitation?
What causes this undeniable divide?
Is the messiness of the men's room a result of their conscious decisions?
Or simply a response to societal expectation?

Regardless,
I think I'll stick to the women's room
While I add bathrooms to my compilation
Of more discrete gender inequality

Pure white,
A flash of gold.
An angel truly fallen.
She found me.
I twist my head, hair tossing.
I glimpse the saddest scene.
Her majesty.
Her purity
Enveloped in a grayscale.
I see your broken wing, love,
But it never kept you from loving.
Your compassion inspires me.
Are you here to guide me?
A blood red that stains porcelain skin,
Deepest scars that tear apart the heart.
Yet she found me,
Asiding her tragedy,
To show me the light.
A flash of gold,
And the purest white
I've ever seen.

Every day I give up a little bit more.
I see the end so certainly.
There's nothing else to really live for.
It becomes easier to let go,
As I sit here alone
Writing about what I've wanted
And being worn of wanting more.
                                                           ­           Every day it gets a little easier
                                                          ­             To take another step forward.
                                                  Whethe­r or not I fall apart the later night,
                                                          ­           I still got through another day.
                                                            ­        I walk into a direction in which
                                                           ­                                 I can be proud of.
                                                             ­                 I have so much to live for.
                                                                   I've to keep opening new doors.
But I can't go without;
I can't lose it all again.
The pain is too much and it feels as if
I'd rather have nothing at all,
But the silence of death.
I would die where no one could see;
No one could know.
                                                  Every day I find love for the littler things.
                                            I appreciate so much more than I had before.
                                                         ­              I find brilliance in your smile.
                                                          ­   And I find motivation in your fight.
                                                          ­                 And inspiration in my soul,
                                                           ­                      So I keep taking control
                                                                ­            Of what I know I could be.
The world grows blacker every day.
People feel further and further away.
I used to belong--
I thought I did, anyway.
I never did though, and I know this the most.
I just wish I had chosen a better path so, so long ago.
Because people will not choose for you,
And it's okay if I go it alone.
                                                          ­       The sunrise still wakes me gently
                                                         And the small sound of your tugging.
                                                        ­                   I raise to a voice calling me.
                                                             ­                   When I go to it, I belong.
                                                         ­ Then I see the people around me too.
                                                         They've been waving this whole time.
                                                           ­         I didn't think it'd be so easy for
                                                                ­ The sleep to break from my eyes.
But the nights are the blackest of all.
I hear nothing but my thoughts.
They shake my shoulders violently.
They tell me, "Nothing is true
Nothing is sacred
Nothing is here for you."
And I am not here for anything.
The nightmares follow just the same.
                                                           ­              The morning still follows;
                                                        ­                      The sun will still come.
There is no love in those mornings,
But I am still here.
                                                           ­              The morning still follows.
But it does not matter anymore.
I can't be anything than what I am.
I cannot try anymore.
                                                        ­             But the morning still follows...
                                                      ­                                  And I am still here.

Whenever I'm on a train platform, no matter how far from the edge, I feel as if I will fall on the tracks.

little old bald-headed tree
stretches bare branches
into the sky,
drawing the universe
into its veins
to live again
come spring.

I am…



Chinese food and sushi, cottage cheese and frozen cocoa;



Skinny jeans and high-tops, hoodies, beanies and makeup;



Animal rescue, cats, dogs, birds, rabbits, and other wildlife;



My own person, individual and original, expressive and human;



Fluffy comforters, fuzzy socks, pillows and stuffed animals;



A best friend, shy but eccentric when you get to know me;



A large book, with actual pages and not the swiping of screens and big, chunky glasses;



Classical and Motown, pop and dubstep, rock and metal, opera and indie;



Earphones, laptops, coffee and warm blankets;



Rainy days, foggy mornings, snow falling softly and crisp leaves descending from the trees above;



Tears, angst, pain, self-consciousness, and anxiousness;



The colors black and red, silver and gold, grey and bronze, green and purple;



Not a child, scared for the future, not ready to leave high school;



Dodge trucks, Model T’s, Mustangs, Hummers, and Jeeps;



A student in high school, a senior, a chief;



Quotes and lyrics, poetry and words;



A dreamer, often heartbroken, caring, compassionate, a troublemaker;



Sunglasses and ripped flip-flops, swimsuits, and sunscreen;



Fingerless gloves and jackets, boots and leggings;



Chocolate and ice cream, pizza and root beer;



Roses and geraniums, petunias and lilies;



Christmas lights, smooth jazz, comfy couches, fluffy pillows, photography;



Just like everyone else but nothing like them, obstinate, a rebel;



Garage sales, thrift stores, flea markets, and savvy spending;



Late nights and TV, Starbucks and musicals;



Fall and winter, sweaters and cocoa;



Bonfires, smores, shorts and Glacier Cherry Gatorade;



Vanilla and cinnamon, Irish Spring body wash and the smell of cigarettes;



Old Spice, Axe, ***, and musk;



Always there for people when they most need me;



Not perfect by any means;



Not math or science, algebra or astronomy;



Not easy to get to know yet an open book;



Not crafty but love art;



Definitely not a model but love showing off new clothes and designs;



Not the best listener to instructions, but knows lyrics to so many songs;



I am Olli, a human being.



I am me.

Watery tear-filled eyes
gaze upon her lifeless body
lying in the bathtub
pills she dropped
on the floor
she looks happy now
at peace
noises and screams and hysterics and tears
surround the boy
lying next to her
emotionless
holding onto her cold
limp hand
staring at her frosty blue lips
wondering where he went wrong
how could he have saved her?