I am in love with a girl that has the prettiest smile, who basks in the morning light with a pillow shoved on her head and a grumble of 'five more minutes'
I am in love with a boy that has the prettiest eyes. who loves watching the moon and stars and has eyes that are just as grey as the clouds above him.

I am in love with a girl that has bad days almost everyday, and texts me about her new level on a video game to try and distract me from her feelings
I am in love with a boy that has a bad past and rarely talks about it, and when he does it's little snippets sprinkled with funny stories to lighten the mood

I am in love with a girl that told me one day she was now a boy, and I assured him I would call him by the right pronouns and name and he cried.
I am in love with a boy that told me one day he is still a boy, and I assured him I already knew and told him his dress was still cute, and he grinned.

I am in love with a gender fluid boy that sometimes loves dresses and sometimes wants nothing but his chest to be flat and his voice to be deep.
I am in love with someone who's idea of perfection isn't what he sees in the mirror, instead it's when you love someone and all their faults, but I assure him that he is mine either way.

The first time I gathered up enough courage
To tell my father his sons name
He looked at me
I watched his mouth move

"It'll be hard for me to let go" He says
He says
He says
He says
Like that would grab the dying name from Hell
And drag it back up again
But it doesn't
And he's disappointed

"You'll always be my little girl" He says
And my throat dries
And my heart dies
And my eyes shut tight
Like that would shield me from the sword
He stabbed into my very being
But it doesn't
And I'm disappointed

The first time I gathered up enough hate
To rip my body into little shards
He looked at me
I watched his mouth smile

My eyes are not sunlit windows to my own self, rather dimmed and tinted blockades to never give you a full picture. They are not a colourful array of flowers, they are dull and wilting weeds.

My lungs cannot breathe in and smell the roses because they are laced with tar, and not enough oxygen from shallow breathing. They are restricted from fulfilling out their purpose so I can feel 'okay.'

My ears will not listen to the buzzing of bees and the gentle wind- they will, however, listen to the screams between them and confuse help with hate.

My tongue does not taste of honeysuckle and mint, but rather ash and dried blood from tasting my existence. It formulates words laced with too much sleep and too little self care.

My fingertips do not touch as if I am handling the daintiest of flower petals, instead they trace a gravestone between my ribs with a purpose. They tear at my own skin and hair, or at least try to.

Do not devalue my battleground of a body by comparing it to a garden