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.

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

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.

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.

I have a lost for inspiration
so I’m offering to you
A poem about this lost
cause I just don’t know what to do

I have thought of many ideas
A poem about perfection
A poem about stars
A poem about a piano
A poem about feelings and emotions
Poems of all kinds
But all the end results were bland
So I’m doing what I can
By writing this poem
This horrid poem of mine

The chance of me submitting this poem is low
But if I don’t do this I wouldn’t know where to go
My mind a confusing mush
So this is a poem of nonsense
If you want you can just stop reading
And you wouldn’t have to hear this rambling

I honestly don’t know how poets do it
Cook up all these ideas from their mind
How can it can be so full of thoughts
Cause from how many most of them write
I’m sure their filled with lots
I would be blessed to have a mind of a poet
But I don’t… so that’s unfortunate

I guess I may end it here
You probably didn’t like this poem
Neither did I
But if you did like it
I guess that’s fine

I hope you haven’t lost too many braincells reading this
Honestly, with writing poems, I’m helpless

Society sees us as black and white,
Good or bad,
Wrong or right,
Even their shades of gray are seen as improper and strange and not right.

But I am not black or white and
I am not those shades of gray,
I am bent light.

I strive when it's rainy and shine high and bright
I am the small ray of rainbow light,
A ROYGBIV full of life.

Even if they say I'm too blinding,
I'll keep on shining and I won't conform.
I’ll blind them with my radiating pride.
I won't let the world see me in black and white.

I want to be a candle
I want to cover myself in wax
Feel it broil my skin
To see my waxy peel crack and break at the pressure
Watch me fall as warmth is radiated on me
And let the scorching heat take me over

I want to be a candle
So they can finally see that I can only last so long
From the tall shining figure
To a Bath and Body Works cavity
So they can watch the ******* fire turn to ashes
I’m not flame-retardant
I am a candle
And my wick has burned out

Let me be a candle
So that I, myself, can put out the lights
And finally, be at peace

Don’t cry
Don’t cry it's alright
Don't cry they’re right there
Don't cry they might stare

Don’t cry
Don’t cry you’re just fine
Don’t cry as they glare
Don’t cry they don’t care

Don’t cry
Don’t cry you’ll survive
Don’t cry it’s not fair
I won’t cry, I swear

Don’t cry
Don’t cry wave goodbye
I cry, my heart tears
I cried…

Once I tried to convince myself that it was seasonal,
And that it would pass like the chilly weather.

Then flowers started to blossom,
But I was still stuck in the bud of my mind
And birds came back from migration,
But my happiness didn't.
Though there were no more flurries of snow in the air,
There were still blizzards in me.

Now, I wasn't only freezing,
But I was alone.
While my teeth were chattering,
I watched everyone else have fun in the sun.
With no one here, no one to snuggle up with, it's impossible to keep warm.
I tried to reach out at least a hand to their summer world,
But it could never reach me.
It's almost like I have a repellent on me,
And no matter how hard i scrub,
It always remains.
But of course, I'm not going to drag others into this winter with me.
Because I know the nature of it.
And I wouldn’t want to inflict it on anyone;
Once it begins, it'll never end.

This eternal winter
has no escape.
This eternal winter
Will be the death of me.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

My limbs
My mouth
My fingers
My mind

It all feels so
                      
                        heavy.

I was dying
Last night,
Under the covers of my sheets.
The waves of hurt were crashing into me.
I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t breathe.

I called out to you, helpless,
“Please, save me, please!”
I cried for you, I cried for you.

“Heyy” - 10:17 PM

I cried for you, I cried for you.
I needed someone to lift me out of the sea,
To save me from my hurt,
To relieve me from the pain;
The pain of the crashes of the waves of everything
And nothing.

I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t breathe.
Where were you? Where the **** were you?
I needed you so badly,
I needed somebody, anybody.
All I needed was a “heyyy” “hii”, or even a funny cat GIF
Anything, anything to tell me that you were there,
That there was someone who would respond to my message at 10 PM
Someone who would hear my cries and serve as my anchor from this ocean of pain.
But no, nobody.
I was drowning,
I was dying.

I cried myself to sleep
Last night.

“Sorry” Too long after AM

Every
Single
Night
I am dying.
But I just can’t seem to ******* die.

There are many opposites in this world:
light and dark,
And love and hate,
bliss and pain,
And Life and Death.
What is Life and Death?

The concept of Life and Death is millenniums of years old,
And the answer is different for every individual you ask
They may say that life is a short experience that every individual goes through
They may say that its a blessing that we must take advantage of
They may say that its a curse that we all must suffer
They may say that we’re here for a specific predetermined reason
And they may say that its nothing until we make something from it
There are many theories and beliefs of what happens after
Some say that you go to another world where you can live in peace and happiness
Another of distress and suffering
Or you just go through another life in a new body under a new name
Or your soul inhabits another animal or object
Or it remains just wandering, bodilessly
And many speculations more…
Then there are others who may say that there is simply nothing.

Life
Life is when your soul has a body to control,
A mind to inhabit,
Dreams to fulfill
It allows that spirit to interact with other spirits to build and create
Life is full and stimulating and always moving
Life is a course of events,
One action impacts the next impacts the next impacts the next…
Life grows and flourishes
Life develops and changes every day and every second and every moment
You have the ability to make your world a utopia
The choices you and others make can impact the next
But those choices won’t always lead to success
Sometimes they’ll lead you to failure
Misery
Disappointment
And sometimes you won’t always get to choose what happens
Life is unexpected
But we have retellings of other’s lives
Rules and guides on how to live our own
Regulations and laws (that aren’t always followed)
Rewards and punishments
Life is a blessing
Life is a curse
Life is everywhere
Life is now.

Death
Death is when your conscious leaves your physical state for eternal time.
We haven’t yet met death, but it still feels familiar
Do we see death in between our stages of wake and sleep?
Or in moments of shock after impact?
Or maybe when our heart drops during a fall?
Its funny being agnostic because no theory of life after death fully satifies
I’d imagine that right before death, a melancholious chill would spead over,
Inabiling every part of you
Segment by segment
Limb by limb
Memory by memory
Then you and your soul would be let free
No longer having to carry the weight of your body, the weight of your thoughts,
An infinite dreamlike state, except with no pictures or visions.
A peaceful, dreamless, light, nothingness.
A freedom from life.
But maybe death is different
It’s interesting being agnostic because no theory of life after death feels sure
Thats the thing, we don’t fully know
Thats why its so scary, it’s unknown
And you can’t undo it, you can’t go back
Death is interminable
Death is inevitable
Death everywhere
Death is the end.

So what is Life and Death?
They are…
…

Why do I feel so lonely?

I have so many friends that love me--
no, like me--
no, tolerate me,
And I'm completely surrounded by people
all the time.

My mind is convinced that nobody actually wants to be my friend.
Don't get me wrong, they're all really nice.
But it believes that they're doing so out of sympathy,
pity.
I'm not really an interesting person,
I always overanalyze situations so that I can say the right thing, but then I get it wrong anyways.
I mostly just make things awkward because I have no idea what I'm doing.
I'm kind of just annoying, really.
I wouldn't want to be friends with me either.

So why do I feel so lonely?
It's not because I'm alone,
It's not because of them,
It's because of me.

There's something wrong with me.

“Lumen,” meaning light in Italian,
“Luna,” moon in Spanish.
Luminary; a person who inspires or influences others—
A natural body of light.

An illuminated individual saying,
“I’m bright. I’m seen.”

I always liked how the Moon shines and brightens the night.
They lead their storm of stars in the dark blue sky.
Everyone below could see as they would confidently stride.
Humans and fireflies might make their own light, but neither could compare to that of the moon.
Lumin is a bright leader, casting their light onto the world.

Lumin isn’t intimidated by those who can’t handle their radiance.
They keep shining on anyway.

So why am I?

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?

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.

I’m naked.
Exposed for the world to judge
And critique
And mold.

I’m naked.
Naturally, in my ******, I am ashamed,
Embarrassed,
Red-faced.
I try to conceal myself,
But my efforts are futile.
The parts of me that were most private
Are no longer.

I’m naked.
You drape me with invisible lavious robes,
You try to paint the illusion of modesty and security.
You gaslight me into thinking a dress of air is a magnificent feat.
But I am not the gullible “emperor” I once was.
The illusion has crumbled before it had the chance to stand.

I’m naked.
But that only means that they see all my surface;
Not the inside,
Never the inside.
For that, they’d have to cut me open
Pull apart my guts and bones
Look behind my eyes,
See what really lies within.
That they’ll never see,
They’ll never see me.
(Already, they’re seeing too much.)

I’m naked.

F
                               a
                                                        l
     ­                       l                            
            ­                                                                 ­       i
                                    n
           g

                                           d
                                                               ­                                  o
                                                               ­      w
              n

.
.
.
                                        ­                                                                 ­         𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘵 !

I failed
                       I failed
                                              I failed.
I tried so hard and yet I failed.
I did everything I was supposed to, and yet I failed.

Now, it didn't matter much.
I honestly don't really care.
But it opens a gateway for all the thoughts
that I continuously fail to lock up.
                                                             ­                                      The thoughts.
                                                       ­                                            The thoughts.
                                                       ­                             Those awful thoughts.
Suddenly I'm crashed into by waves of feeling everything
and then when it subdues, nothing.

EVERYTHING
nothing
EVERYTHING
nothing
EVERYTHING
                                                     ­                                                               I am
nothing.

Those thoughts feed off my self-doubt and disappointment,
like a parasite.
I can't get them out.
I can't get them out.
                                                            ­                           God, they're so loud.
                                                           ­                                                      STOP
                                                            ­                                                     STOP
                                                            ­                                                     STOP
                                                            ­                                                     STOP
Shut up.
Just shut up.
                      Just stop thinking
                                       Just shut your mind up
                                                              ­                                                   STOP
                                                            ­                                                     STOP
                                                            ­                                                     STOP
                                                            ­                                                     STOP

Don't cry,
no don't cry.
If you cry, they'll know,
                                          and then,
                                                           ­                          "Why are you crying?
                                                         ­              You have no reason to be sad.
                                                            ­           or
                                                              ­            anxious
                                             ­                          or
                                                              ­            depressed
                                           ­                            or
                                                              ­            possibly even
                                                            ­                                     ******* insane.
No, no reason.
No reason whatsoever.

                                                    ­                                                    So shut up,
                                                                                                           don't cry.
                                                            ­                                  Your life is great.
                                                          ­                         You have great friends,
(Do I?)
                                                             ­                     You have great parents,
(Do I?)
                                                             ­                                     You're healthy,
(Am I?)
                                                             ­                                         You're alive,
(Am I?)
                                                             ­                                    Nobody died."
(Had I?)
(I'm dead.)
I'm
dying
dying
dying
Oh god, **** me please
Please I can't do
it on my
own
please
please
please.

It hurts so much,
these waves of everything
and nothing
over and over
and over and over
and over ---
and nothing works.
My brain doesn't work.
Make it stop.
                      Make it stop.
                                                                ­                                      Make it stop
                                                            ­                                          Stop
                  ­                                                                 ­                       Stop
                                     ­                                                                 ­       Stop
                                                            ­                                                    Stop
        ­                                                                 ­                                          Stop.

Please.

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?

"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."

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.

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.

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".

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.

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.

The winter breeze comes to rob the trees of their leaves.
With those leaves flows her light linen layer.
The shawl isn’t nearly enough to combat the cold,
So why would he be?

She shivers, the air’s frigidity insulting her sleek bronze surface.
“Let me hold you,” he says, “you’re so beautiful.”
Her eyes downcast and her knees pinch.

“Look at those beautiful eyes,” he says,
“Why don’t you will them to look into mine?”

She lifts them, heavy, and absently meets his.
Her lashes are frosted white.
The hypothermia wouldn’t take long to take her.

Her mind pleads, help, help, help,
But her thoughts seem to be freezing slowly at the same rate as her body.
Her lips tremble and crack as she separates them.

“Look at those beautiful lips,” he says, “Come here and let them meet mine”
She tightens the shawl to her skin, but it’s already lost all sense.
She’s already losing all sense.

“Don’t be ashamed,” he says, “you’re so beautiful.”

Her arms tense, but the light fabric seems fleeting from them.
Her light mind,
Fleeting from her…

His arms open,
“Come here, beautiful, why don’t you see?”

She whimpers, shakily, a plea:
“please.”

She crumples into his arms.

“You’re so beautiful, why don’t you see?”
“I don’t want to be beautiful,” she says,

She falls right through.
He was never there.

“I want to be alive.”

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.