I can't
I can't
I can't
I can't do this
Its too much
Its too
much.
It's
too
much.

I can't think -
I'm forced to think, to think think think about it
All at once
Not at all
I can't -
I don't know
Do you?
Do you know what this is
supposed to be?
Is?
What is -
the meaning
of
everything
nothing
me?

I'm just so
everything
all at once
My mind is broken up into its smallest fragments
scrambling to get it all done,
all in this frantic insane mess, and yet
its so unclear to you
how unable I am.

I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm sorry I'msorryI'msorry -
I'msorryIcouldn'tbeeverythingyouwantedmetobe,
I'msorrythatIdidn'­ttryhardenough
I'msorrythatIforgothowtodream
I'msorrythatI'mjusta­kid
I'msorry
I'm sorry.
I'm
Sorry.

I just can't.

How do you expect a child to do so much?

They're tired, can't you see?
Tired from doing so much,
And that "much" being nothing worthwhile
Doesn't make it any less tiring.

They're tired,
Lift them up into your arms
Where it is safe and warm,
For the weight of their own body is too heavy to bear.

They're so tired,
So lay them in bed and tuck them under a blanket
Of a thousand promises to always be there for them, never let them hurt, to always love them.

They're tired,
Just read them a bedtime story about silly little talking animals
That sometimes have troubles,
But always work it out in the end.

They're tired,
Let them have their little interminable nap,

Because they're tired.
And they deserve to rest.

Unfinished poems
Wandering bits in my mind
Waiting to be

The moon is too beautiful
To do something so horrific
Under its gaze.

The emptiness aches,

Only interupted with the waves of pure hurt.

You say I'm being dramatic.

But you don't know these aches of hopelessness.

The loaded weight keeping me from progressing.

The loneliness that is most prevalent when surrounded.

You don't know what is

to drown within yourself

submerged in hurt

that stings eyes when looking for hope

and makes those close sound so far away

and sinks you further and further

into its bottomless pit.

I am scarred.
Can you see?

I am weeping.
Can you hear?

I am hurting
Can you feel it?

I am sorry
Can you forgive me?

I am not
okay
Can you tell?

I am
                   dying
Can you help me?

I am asking nicely
Please?

This world we live in is chaotic and messy,
and yet we expect ourselves to be composed and perfect?

How could we, when we ourselves are individual complex worlds that follow the same principles of the wider world.

How, if we are the monomers of this complex structure and therefore share its qualities -
No,
Give it its qualities.

For we are chaotic and messy
And apart of something much greater than ourselves.

So don't be so rigid,
Its not in our nature.

Just be.

Tonight, I met again with the waxing crescent
hanging lowly and gently in the night sky.

Nearby, a confident small star twinkled
"See me,
See my beauty,
One that can compare to that of your great moon."

I look, and see
That this star had made its mark in the night
Marking it like the mole on your face.

Its not much next to your eyes or lips or smile
Or the wondrous mysterious moon.

But still, this small star made the great night
Just that much more beautiful.

I constanftly crave the feeling of loving
Because, when I do,

My heart sparks in my chest
Like Poprocks in my mouth.

The tiny explosions of love satisfy my sweet tooth just right
And has me feeling that untouchable, wild spirit of a sugar-loaded kid.

But, like all Poprocks, the pops slow and the candy dissolves
Leaving me with the remnants of its sweetness.

I am heavy
with hurt.
Both mines, and yours

And the hurt of
My mother,
a woman who deserves commited love.
And my father,
a boy who shouldn't have starved.
And my grandmothers,
girls that grew up too fast and too far away from home.

And the for all the children of the world,
all of us whose ability to love others and ourselves in a silly, gentle, erratic, genuine, inperfect, beautiful way was lost with boxed up toys and discarded sugary cereal boxes.

And for the world,
a once beautiful place that has been forced to endure careless brutality and abuse that is now scarred and broken and yet is still fighting for itself.

Like all the children of the world
Like my grandmothers
Like my father
Like my mother
Like you
Like me.

It's a heavy load to carry,
But I'm not planning to give in any time soon.

when I die
I will decompose
and be made
into something alive

I am living
made out of
decomposed bits
of dead things.

is anything ever really dead?
is anything ever really alive?

I don't know.

but my heart beats
and the earth breathes
just the same.

Her
Her
Her
Her

You want to see her in a pretty dress
That restricts the ribs, the lungs
Like my makeshift chest binder from years back

Her in a sparkly tiara
That weighs down the head
And makes me look
down
         down

Down at her shoes
High-heeled and floral
In which I stumble

In her father-daughter dance
Where he smiles bright
At his brilliant, beautiful-

Her blowing out the candles
Wishing for
...

I've only ever wished to rid of her,
And now here I am hidden behind these candles
In this dance,
Shoes,
Tiara,
Dress,
Body,

Her.

I would cry over spilled milk
But not spilled blood.

Because, the spilled milk is actively disrupting my linear and strictly constructed plan to make cereal and therefore also everything that comes after it, and I would have wasted milk and so prevented a future me from the cereal breakfast pleasure.

But, if the blood is my own, I can usually disconnect myself from the injury and just not notice, ignore, or press a paper against it to prevent bloodying everything and go on with my day with but a slight sensation in my finger. If its more dire, I'd disconnect just the same, but be slightly more irritated as it would now disrupt routine but still probably be fine. If not my own, then I'd really struggle to care, as I do not have much of the ability to transfer another's pain to myself via the superpower everyone seems to have called "empathy".

Me crying for spilled milk and not blood
does not make me alien.
It just makes me some sort of sick ******.

Huh.
I think I rather just be an alien.

I wish I knew how to be a person.

To you, it seems to be second nature
And yet to me, it seems like a sacred craft
To which I don't have ancestral access to
A foreign language
That'd take me a masterclass to learn
A calculated dance
Whose music I am deaf to,
While you have this mesmerizing choreography that you didn't even have to practice.

I can try to imitate,
Copy-paste your manerisms, sayings, even tone
But it's clearly ingenuine on me
and so very exhausting.

How can you do this and enjoy it?
Free flowing laughs and excited speech.
You shine, so bright and proud,
Not noticing how your light is making a shadow of me.

It's sad,
frustrating,
lonely.
Lonely to be a human
But not know how to be a person.

i am screaming
screaming out to you

why can't you hear me?
just listen.

you say you can't hear me
because i am screaming in silence

and i cant expect people to hear me
if i'm not saying anything at all.

how is it that, inside me
its so **** loud,

and yet i can't manage to get it outside.
i can't get people to hear.

i guess its sad if people are so limited by their senses
while i am able to experience all the infinite forms of communication.

or, maybe its sad for me.
because even if i can communicate in all these infinite ways,

it makes it hard to find the one in which
they can hear me

screaming
in silence.

Am I physically unable to succeed, like, ever?

I mean, come on world, cut me some slack!
I'll try as hard as I want,
give you whatever you want,
Just let me have this,
please.

I say this, and I mean it.
I give up every part, piece, fragment of myself  
Just to keep failing over and over and over again.

I'm telling you guys, its seriously not fair.
But fine...

I'll just slowly disintegrate into the Earth
Like all dead things do.
Maybe, then I'll grow into something thats actually good
and beautiful
and worthwhile,

Like - like a flower growing from *******!
And not like a total failure and complete waste of space.

"Quel jour de la semaine aimes-tu le mieux?"
It says on the french homework.

Well, lets see...

Lundi is terrible, first day of the week.
Mardi is subpar, practically a repeat of the first.
Mereredi theres too much too do, between clubs and homework.
Jeudi is too long, and my guitar teacher's chance to remind me little practice I put into the guitar, and everything else that doesn't matter enough to me.
Vendredi is the end, but not quite the start of anything good, since
Samedi is filled with homework and more lessons and such that eat away at me until I'm nothing more but a husk of myself.
Dimanche is when I'm forced to meet my sins in the face while trying to not let them show on my face because I cant let anyone know of these "inner battles" I'm facing.

So, which day of the week do I like the most?
"Aunun.
Je déteste tous les jours,
mois,
année.
...
Je déteste ma vie."

My limbs
My mouth
My fingers
My mind

It all feels so
                      
                        heavy.

Sit across the psychologist,
and wait as they assess how to fix you.

Ignore the persistent buzzing from the ceiling, keyboard clacking,
box of what seems to be sedatives - just in case this goes wrong.

Pretend that you're having friendly conversation,
all while insides fail and you wonder if you'll make it to the end.

Tell them all the deepest darkest secrets,
those that you wouldn't dare whisper even to yourself at night.

Notice how they watch you with a critical eye,
picking you apart and laying out the pieces of yourself.

Don't flinch as they crudely collect the most painful parts,
for that just shows that theres still some left in you.

Don't whimper in grief as they discard of these ragged fragments,
dropping in a solution of escitalopram and hollow affirmations.

Don't notice how this left you with was an empty sort of numbness,
it's just apart of the process.

Don't tell them that of the shards still left wounds,
because it'll scar over and heal in (a long long interminable) time.

Don't mention how you still don't feel okay,
because then you must just be doing it wrong.

Don't tell them how you're still not, and will possibly never be okay,
Don't tell them that those shards are only growing,
Don't tell them that you're empty,
Don't tell them that you sort of miss the insisting hurt,
Don't tell them how you are simply not capable of being "okay",

because then they'll have to take more drastic measures.
Anything to help you get "better".

It's always between the two.
Myself or everyone else?
Myself or my family?
Honest to myself or acceptable to everyone else?
Truth or tradition?

I don't want to lose them, their respect, everyone's respect.
Nobody is going to accept me or take me seriously, and I can't just give up everything I'm known as.
Can't give up the little I have left.

But I can't live like this.
Every day like this just feels so wrong.
I hate myself,
I hate living.

I can't live my life like this, live someone else's life.
I try to convince myself that I'm wrong, that I'm just doing it for the 'trend', for attention
but I can't.
I can't stand looking like this, being seen as something I'm just not.

But a big part of society hates the existence of people like me,
my friends hate the existence of people like me,
my family hates the existence of people like me.

What am I meant to do?
I hate this so much.
The constant reminders, the self-hatred, peer-judgment, fear, frustration, people on social media and the news and the government and ****,
I hate this so so so much.

Why don't I feel good about this?
I've been practically killing myself for 3 years and... I got what I wanted.

"Wanted".

Did I really want this?
Was all that for just this?
I should be grateful, I know I should,
but I still find myself asking why.

Why?

They didn't do ****, I did.
They told me and all I said was "oh, wow".
I can't say I didn't expect it, but, I don't know.

I don't know.

I'm not mad that I got it, of course, but not really happy either.
I don't really feel anything about it. I tell people, and I don't feel any pride, just nothing.

Nothing...

nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing.

It always comes back to this.
I don't know why I always fall into the belief that they'll be okay
again.
Again.
Again.
It keeps getting bad.
Then it gets "better".
And I think it's really better,
But then it's not.
And
I don't know.
I hate this.

My life is an act.
I'm pretending all the time.
And the crazy thing is that it's still not right.
It's still not enough.
Again and again, i ask the world "why cant i be normal?"
The world never responds.
I play every part I'm asked, but an actor can't play two in the same scene.
What do you want me to do?
I don't understand

I'm so tired

Don't you wish, sometimes, that you could turn your brain off?

Sometimes they're all at once, one after the other
Those are usually the self-deprecating ones
They're like little flecks of hot cigarette ash on my heart
on my
           mind
that don't feel all that bad.
but when its one
after another                       𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱
after another                       𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵
after another                       𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴
It consumes me in flames
The scalding heat leaving my heart melted and my mind raw
Until it's nothing but ash and
nothingness.                       𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

Other times, they're completely random and
really ******* atrocious.
𝘚𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳.
𝘍𝘭𝘪𝘱 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦.
𝘗𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳.
𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩.
𝘛𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴.
𝘙𝘶𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤.
𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.
𝘑𝘶𝘮𝘱 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦.
𝘛𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴.
𝘉𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭.
𝘛𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘮 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴,
𝘖𝘳- 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵
𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯                                
                                 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯                
              𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

It's terrifying.
Makes me think I'm going insane, or that I'm some monster
which, in transparency, isn't so unbelievable.

I truly just wish, most the time, that I could turn my brain off.

Why do I not want to tell them?

...

The last time I told them about something that was so important to me was when I came out to them as nonbinary.
I thought they were at least slightly accepting, she had had a gay friend after all, and they had never shown any obvious transphobia.
(Its funny how, after I came out, the bigotry became a lot more prevalent).

And so, I went to my grandma's kitchen, sat on the floor, in a corner, and typed out
"I am nonbinary"
in our group chat.
My thumb hovered over send for what seemed like an eternity
until, finally,
I pressed send.
And then I started to cry.

They had texted back "okay" and "what does that mean" but I didn't respond. I couldn't respond.
When she picked me up a few hours later, we talked.
Well, she talked.

She told me how I'm just confused
and how theres only two genders giving me some ****** up biology lesson about it, using the terms "gender" and "***" interchangeably.
and how society had just manipulating me to be this way
and how it was a sin against God
and how I don't get a choice in this
and how I'm a
beautiful girl
and I didn't have to be insecure about it.

I was
broken
by these words.
I cried that night.
I cried
           and cried
because I realized that
they would never accept me.
They would never love me.

I think I
                attempted
to
                                  ­              **** myself
that night.

I don't remember, exactly
There were so many attempts that I just
can't remember
anymore.

...

Why do I not want to tell them?

Because
I'm scared.
I don't want to be ridiculed and criticized.
I don't want to break my own heart again.
I don't want to be rejected again.
I don't trust them anymore.

I don't want to tell them, because they lost my
trust.

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.

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.

F
                               a
                                                        l
     ­                       l                            
            ­                                                                 ­       i
                                    n
           g

                                           d
                                                               ­                                  o
                                                               ­      w
              n

.
.
.
                                        ­                                                                 ­         𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵 !

Every
Birthday candle
Angel hour
Fountain coin
Church prayer
Dandelion blow

I wish for the same thing.
I'm still waiting for my wish to come true.

Why do I still miss you?
I miss the way you talked to me so sweet
Told me that I was so pretty,
The way I o            p            e            n            e            ­d my legs for you.

I knew it was wrong.
It felt so wrong.
But I was so lonely, and something in my ****** up mind said it was right.

And so, I came back.
And when I couldn't, I turned to others, tried to replicate that feeling.
And now I can't even do that.

I feel disgusting for what I did.
They say, I was only 10, I didn't know any better.
But I did. I know I did.
And I feel guilty for painting myself as the victim.
I mean, he didn't force me,
He didn't split me open.
He never even touched me.
He just turned me into a puppet
and
had me do it myself
with
a camera in front.
...

I still miss you,
No, crave for you.
For those words that
dripped sweet like
the slick between
                               thighs
my
                                                              ey­es
your
                                                         ­                                    ****.

Why do I still miss you?

When you did respond,
you told me that you were sorry.
That you were
alive.
I think you understood where my worry came from.

I asked you where you had been,
and you said that you were just doing school and sleeping.
It was another depressive episode.

Oh, well.

I feel bad to feel relieved,
But
It could've been worse.
You could've
Cut too deep
Or stayed in bed
Or skipped your meds
Or taken too many...

You could've
Left me.

I said sorry for being such a bother,
Said that "I hope you feel better."
And even though thats not quite right thing to say,
But I think that's the closest I could've gotten.

I remember, I've done this before,
I was... 10, it was 2020.
I remember, my best friend, Kaydence, wouldn't respond to my texts
for a month.
We had fought,
It was some stupid Minecraft game.
And then, she just
Stopped texting
Back.

I was lonely, it was quarantine after all, and I didn't have no one else to talk to.
I texted her every single day
Cried every single day.
I was being dramatic, obviously,
I'm always so **** dramatic.

When she came back, she acted like nothing had happened.
Her mom had just taken away her phone, or something.
I didn't have to worry.

...I think that month I spent, alone
Thats when it had started to get bad.

I'm sorry, really.
I hadn't meant to bother you by
Messaging you everyday for a week,
Each following one more frantic than the last,
Because you wouldn't respond.

I was scared.
Really, really scared.
Scared that you had done something to yourself...

Scared that, maybe, you
Stayed in bed too long
Cut to deep
Went too many days without eating
Too many days skipping your meds-
Or maybe, took all your skipped pills all at once---

It's irrational, I know.
I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, really.
I hadn't meant to bother you by
Messaging you everyday for a week,
Each following one more frantic than the last,
Because you wouldn't respond.

I was scared.
Really, really scared.
Scared that you had done something to yourself...

Scared that, maybe, you
Stayed in bed too long
Cut too deep
Went too many days without eating
Too many days skipping your meds-
Or maybe, took all your skipped pills all at once---

It's irrational, I know.
I'm sorry.

...

I remember, I've done this before,
I was... 10, it was 2020.
I remember, my best friend, Kaydence, wouldn't respond to my texts
for a month.
We had fought,
It was some stupid Minecraft game.
And then, she just
Stopped texting
Back.

I was lonely, it was quarantine after all, and I didn't have no one else to talk to.
I texted her every single day
Cried every single day.
I was being dramatic, obviously,
I'm always so **** dramatic.

When she came back, she acted like nothing had happened.
Her mom had just taken away her phone, or something.
I didn't have to worry.

...I think that month I spent, alone,
Thats when it had started to get bad.

...

When you did respond,
you told me that you were sorry.
That you were
alive.
I think you understood where my worry came from.

I asked you where you had been,
and you said that you were just doing school and sleeping.
It was another depressive episode.

Oh, well.

I feel bad to feel relieved,
But
It could've been worse.
You could've
Cut too deep
Or stayed in bed
Or skipped your meds
Or taken too many...

You could've
Left me.

I said sorry for being such a bother,
Said that "I hope you feel better."
And even though thats not quite right thing to say,
But I think that's the closest I could've gotten.

No, oh no
Don't let me get like this again...

You tell me I'm getting "bigger," "fatter"
And point out how the clothes from when I was a preteen barely fit anymore.
And ask me if I'm really going to eat "all that"

Well, I guess not,
I guess I'll just
Serve myself less
and less

And maybe I'll keep track of what I'll eat--
Yes, I'll count the exact amount of calories that I need
And measure out how much I eat.

And then-
At the gym,
I'll push myself so hard,
Until I can't think straight,
and it just hurts,
and I can't breathe,
and I can't think straight,
and I begin to see stars float around (oh, aren't they beautiful?).

And then-
Once I eat too much, or even if I ate just enough, or too little--
If I ate at all,
Then I'll kneel over the toilet
And purge out my mistakes.

Yes, that's exactly what I'll do.

...

You say that I'm getting worse again,
That I'm beautiful,
That I have no reason to be doing this
That I'm selfish for doing this.

...Oh?
But aren't you the one that served me less,
And put me on the scale and turned that number into the new calorie deficit,
And took me to the gym to slim down until I was nothing more than skin and bones,
And forced me to kneel in front of the toilet,
The same way I would at the church pew,
Held my hair back,
Forced my fingers down my throat to activate the reflex that barely works anymore,
And made me purge out all of myself and flush it down?

No?
Oh.
Well, whatever,
Never mind.

She came to my bed last night,
and told me to pray.

"Pray for God to help with your stress in school," she said.
"Oh, but I'm not stressed"
"So pray thanks to God for that."
"Okay..."
She doesn't leave.
"Am I praying to you or to Him?"
She sighs and sits next to me.

"Repeat after me..."
Padre nuestro que estás en el cielo,
santificado sea tu Nombre;
venga a nosotros tu Reino;
hágase tu voluntad
en la tierra como en el cielo.
Danos hoy
nuestro pan de cada día;
perdona nuestras ofensas,
como también nosotros perdonamos
a los que nos ofenden;
no nos dejes caer en la tentación,
y líbranos del mal. Amén.

I do as she says. She gives me a kiss and smiles.
"I love you. You'll always be my girl."
I smile back.
"Good night."

Once she leaves, I turn in my bed to face the wall
and I cry.
I cry, "She'll never love me."
I cry, "She'll never accept me."
I cry, "She'll only ever love her."
I cry, "What is wrong with me?"

The waves of pain crash into me
It starts in my chest,
And rolls all the way to my finger tips
And out through my eyes.
It hurts so much.

I look up, and I pray,
"Why, God, have you made me like this?
Why have you made me into something that is so wrong in your eyes, in her eyes?
All I wanted was to be loved and happy.
God, please,
Why am I like this?
Why do I have to live like this?
Why have you given me a choice between two sins:
Either live as myself, my gender diverse self, my oh so sinful self
Or **** myself because I can't bear to live any other way.
Why, God?
Why won't you just let me die?"

I sob into my pillow, quietly enough so that they won't hear me from their bedroom on the opposite side of the hall.
But God hears everything, doesn't He?
Why doesn't He hear me?