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i need to hug you at least once,
we need to complete at least one thing from our bucket list,
i need to cry in your arms,
and i need you to cry in mine,

and i need to prove to you that it does
get better.
it does get better, right?
i can't die
until its made certain
that the name on the headstone
will be mine.
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning?
O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer,
and by night, but I find no rest.
Sometimes I’m [deadname]. She is Dominican mango. Perfectly sweet. She wears dresses and skirts, she is a princess. She is perfectionistic, soft-spoken, and proper, just as her mother is. She thinks that academics are the only thing that she can prove her worth with, but doesn’t let anyone know. She feeds off of the validation of others. She strives to be at the top of her class, anything less would make her a failure. She never stops until she succeeds, never giving up. She is smart. She is successful. She is perfect. She is my cursed present. She is [deadname].

Sometimes I’m [dead-nickname]. She is slightly unripe guava. She is bitter-sweet, delivering a punch of flavor. She is like the innocent child who has yet to learn the dreads of living. She is playful and loves doing her doll’s hair, braiding and brushing it, just as her mother does for her. She makes bracelets and handwritten cards as presents, writing all the little poems that flow through her mind like the wind flowing through the trees. She loves the swings at the park, flying high. She is like a bird that has yet to leave the nest. She is brave. She is playful. She is creative. She was my childhood. She is [dead-nickname].

Sometimes I’m Lumin. They are starfruit. Bold, sweet and sour, tangy and ****. They are bright, like the celestial wonder they were named after. They light up any room they walk into as their outspoken and unforgiving self. Their luster makes others stop and stare. They are like a warrior that would do anything to defend the people they love. A leader that leaves no soldier behind. They don’t let anyone tell them what to do. They are brave. They are confident. They are bright. They are my future. They are Lumin.

They all struggle to coexist in this world. They never get along, fighting like siblings. But they jumble up and create the mess of a person that I am. I wish that I could live by the name that is me, but walls of steel stop me from fulfilling it. So, for now, I’m [deadname], [dead-nickname], and Lumin.
This was an English assignment based on the vignette "My Name" in A House On Mango Street
Cut out my deadnames cause... yeah.
My family has a miscellany of hair, yet we complement each other perfectly.

Papi has short hair like a dark chocolate shrub. His beard is kept short and is rough like sandpaper, contrasting with his lively outgoing self and he has a bit hanging below his lip that he occasionally twirls around his finger.

Mama has long soft hair that is kept formally straight and tidy as a ruler for outings and work but can revert to its wild self at home.

My older sister has the hair of a firebrand that never seems to stay in order. It’s kept a jungle of curls, curlicues decorating the edges.

My little sister, the youngest, has “long long” hair. “Long long” hair, as soft as the down of a chick. “Long long” hair, dark like her nightly chocolate milk. “Long Long” hair, perfumed with aromas of pizza and hair oil. “Long long” hair, untamed and wild as a lion cub. “Long Long” hair, in braids, pigtails, pony, and puff. “Long long” hair, like a princess— the regime of our apartment, like the mermaid who had long since found her voice. Just barely reaches below the shoulder, and has yet to get her first haircut. “Long long” hair, she says. “Long long” hair, like the “big kid” she is.
This was an English assignment based on the vignette "Hairs" in A House On Mango Street
I wonder, a lot of the time,
what it would be like if I were born a
boy.

Would I be happier?
Relieved from this feeling to over-masculinize myself
to combat the more obvious feminine features...

The "girl" voice
"Girl" body
"Girl" hair
"Girl" name
"Girl" demeanor
"Girl"
"Girl"
"Girl"

Baby
"Girl"
...

What if I were born a baby
"Boy"

Well then, that wouldn't make it any better, now would it.

Then it would all be,
"Boy"
"Boy"
"Boy"
"Boy" demeanor
"Boy" name
"Boy" hair
"Boy" body
"Boy" voice

So, even if my chromosomes were lost an X, had a Y instead,
I would still be bound to the same fate.
The same hurt that is gender dysphoria.

Society-
or, God?-
has only made two categories,
two choices
two sexes
two lives
two boxes.

I wonder, then,
what it would be like
if that wasn't so.
F
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                                        ­                                                                 ­         𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵 !
Giving omori vibes
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