I’m slipping again.
I can hear them.
Whispered admonishments,
Echo in my head…
Louder and louder,
As I feel fuller and fuller,
All my spaces filled with shadows,
And the demons start to creep,
Clawing up my throat
And through the cuts in my skin.
I can’t control the chaos,
My hands are sliding on the reins,
I wish that I could ask for help,
But they won’t let me.

I don’t recognise the face I see,
Staring from the mirror,
It’s pale,
empty,
An ill-formed shell,
A weak and cracked container
For this maelstrom,
My hell.

They’re scratching at my skin again,
Make it stop, make it stop.
My bones are breaking through again,
Make it stop.

Smile.
“I’m fine.”
Smile.
“Just tired.”
Smile.
“oh, sorry, I’ve been busy.”
Smile.
Smile.
Smile.

It’s funny,
isn’t it?
How hard it is to tell the difference
between a smile

and a grimace.

It’s funny,
isn’t it?
How people are so willing
to swallow a lie,
If it’s what they want to hear,

And you’re baring your teeth.

Falling asleep

With your
                 Hand
                         In
                             Mine.

I think this might be heaven.

I am a woman.
Or so I'm told.
But how can I be a woman,
When the me in the mirror
Doesn't match the me in my head,
Because I just can't comprehend
Seeing ****?
When I want to peel my skin off
Because it itches at the seams,
Of the stitched in expectations
Of my ***?
When the people all around me
Laugh and say “it's natural”
When I dare to express my discomfort,
And it seems I'm the only one
Who struggles with the day to day
Of existing as a “miss”,
And my name doesn't fit unless it's shortened?
So I strap down my chest
So you can't see it.
But still my face screams woman,
And my voice
And my hips
And that ever ******,
Mother ******* “MISS”.
I know my **** are still there,
Their discomfort physical now,
Not just a mental ache.
And every month I bleed,
And it's like my body's betraying me.
But the whole world says that's just the way it is.

I'm tired of the way it is.
I'm tired of your boxes.
I climb out of one
To be kicked into another,
Not a woman, fine.
So I must want to be a man?
I must want to join the ranks
Of the people that have disgusted me,
Debased me
And repulsed me?
Of the people making sport
Of the gender I have lived with?
No.
No.
I won't live with a gender,
With your ******* expectations,
Or your games
Or your stupid little boxes.
Pink,
Or blue?
I LIKE ******* BOTH.
I want hairy legs,
But not a hairy chest.
I don't want ****,
But I don't want a ***** either.
I want long hair,
Without assumptions I'm a girl.

I want to exist outside society.
It's broken.

I don't want an easy love.
Sure, I want a napping in the sun,
Doing everything and nothing
All at once
Staring into each other's eyes
And giggling at an in-joke
Kind of love.
But not a simple one.
Not one that settles into my bones
With the inevitability of old age.
Not one that grows so comfortable
It becomes ordinary.
I want fire.
I want passion.
I want a love that makes me fight for it.
Over and over again.
I want a love that keeps me on my toes.
That never settles into routine.
Sure, I want a coffee in bed
Cuddles with a film
Soft pillows and warm skin
Kind of love.
But I also want to look at it
And see that it is ephemeral
And changeable
And all the more precious for it.

Sure, I want a lifetime kind of love.
But a lifetime's a long time.
And I want it to be a wild tango,
Not a slow and stately waltz.

I have never been afraid of fire.
Which is good, I think,
Because when I am with you
I feel like I might go up in flames.
You have consumed me more thoroughly
Than a pyre would, love.
And I have never been so happy to burn.

I am jealous of your life before.
Of all the fingers that have touched you,
And the ears that have heard you say
“I love you.”
I am jealous
Of all the parts of you I will never know,
Of all the years that I didn’t play a part in,
Of all the smiles that I didn’t cause.
I know I have no right to be,
I cannot claim every piece of you,
I cannot deny you a history,
I cannot be your everything.
But god knows, I want to be.
Because what if those ghosts of fingers
Still touch you?
What if you still hear the echoes
Of “I love you”s that tripped from tongues
Other than mine?
What if all those smiles,
Half remembered,
Make you long for lips you used to kiss?
What if,
What if,
What if.
I don’t know how to not be afraid
Of losing you.
I am scared that one day you will wake up,
And look at me,
And realise I am so hollow
And I have so little to give.
I am scared that you will realise
You are worth so much more
Than me.