I question what it could be sometimes,
Fathom the ideas in my head-
All strange, and unruly, and unheard of by the people around me.

I wonder if I'll form a herion addiction like my father,
Or take up coke instead.
I'm proud that I've yet to try, but my insecurities rule over all

I don't know what to expect with myself anymore.
What I'm going to try next,
Or if I'll die from lung cancer when everything I've tried before
Catches up to **** me.

Or if the medications the doctors put me on will go through
All those adverse side affects
And **** me themselves.

Or if my mind finally gets to me.
Finally kills me, ends itself.
One second there and the next gone.
It's too much to figure. I can't handle that thought.
It's been here too long,
It's an old friend.
I hate it.

My downfall is too many things,
Myself, the outside, the feelings that plague my being-
The insecurity...

It's too complicated. It's too exhausting.
I'm tired. Maybe that's my downfall...

The tiredness fueled by the unfathomable idea of it all.

Days lead into weeks
And the weeks lead into months
And it all eventually boils down to years

The years I no longer want
To keep passing as it all
Falls into the bits and pieces
That I so fear.

It is within these days that
Even as I find love
And begin the slow learning
Of myself and who I happen
To be, I realize

I will never actually know what truly happiness is
I have been harmed too many times
To have even a concept on love
On life
On not fearing everything

They say I’m becoming a different person
That all of a sudden everything is scaring me
But it’s not sudden

It’s not sudden like you think,
It’s just that I’m bad at hiding it right now
Because I am so tired

I am so tired these days
That I can’t function well
And in these days
I lose hope
All over again.

While I’m not going to do much of anything
About not feeling the hope,
I realize I’m tired of trying to go on.

I fear life in of itself these days
And it’s one of the worst feelings
To watch as these days
Continue to float on.

I can still feel it.
His hand on my throat, pressing
On my bones.
His hands on my thighs,
Tight and begging-
He keeps asking
Over and over.
He calls me his lovely boy,
His beautiful boy,
I am not his beautiful boy
He should not have been touching my body-

I wish I could have screamed-
I wish I could have screamed-
I wish I could have s c r e a m e d

Why couldn't I scream?

To whoever he chooses to love next,
Hold onto him tightly.
Play with his hair,
Fall in love with his dog.
Let him fall asleep on your chest,
Even if you realize the t.v. remote is out of reach and you're stuck watching reruns of old shows.

Learn to at least give a shot to his interests,
If you don't share all of them.
Magic, music, and dnd are his biggest hobbies,
I can't tell you whether or not boy scouts will continue to consume a good chunk of his life,
But if you've the chance, go watch this areas Mic-o-say tribe dance.

Love him with every bone in your body,
And hold him when he cries.
Shush him gently,
Remind him that no matter what his anxiety twists up,
He will eventually be okay.
Remind him that his loved ones are always with him.

Go and listen to him play or sing whenever you can,
Support him at as many competitions and concerts and shows as possible.
Never let his love for music fade away.

Bond with him over it,
Discuss a plan for switching off radio privileges.
Sing with him in the car,
Because even if you think you sound like trash,
Chances are he'll give you constructive criticism while reminding you that even with a mishap,
You will always sound beautiful to him. In tune or not.

Take him on adventures,
But also spend a good amount of time at home-
He's a taurus, after all.

If you go to his moms facebook page,
And even a few of the youth leaders, if you ever meet them at Westside,
You can find adorable pictures of him growing up.

Truth be told, he'll probably someday mention how he used to have braces.
It's not that important of a piece of information,
But it's something to look forward to in those younger pictures.
They made him seem extra nerdy,
In a really cute way.

Again, I remind you, love him.
Love him with absolutely everything and then some.
Love him even if he ever yells at you about not opening up if you have troubles with it,
Love him if he rushes over to you if he has the chance if you're feeling too unsteady on your own.

Let him hold you while you cry,
Teach him what calms you down while you're in the right headspace and he will always remember.
He used to tap my hand in 4/4 time so I could sync my breathing,
Just as an example.

Let him remind you that he's probably a bit more stubborn than you think,
Because even if he's going through hell,
If he truly loves you he will do anything he can to avoid hurting you,
Until the avoidance hurts you more than anything.

But I warn you,
Don't believe all of his promises.
If he says he wants to be there forever-
Unless he's graduated college and is finally settled down in his job field,
Don't fully believe it.

He means no harm by it, but when it comes to love like this he is so young and unexperienced.
If you can, guide him along.

If you, by some strange existance of happening,
Come across this,
And you think I'm just someone crazy…

I was, in his own words, his first real relationship.
And for me, he was the first boy I ever trusted fully,
Outside of my best friend, Kyle.
He was the first boy I truly ever fell deep in love with.

I have learned all of this from seven months,
Seven months of us clicking like puzzle pieces until it all fell apart,
Until I finally couldn't take the questions of whether or not he fully,
Truly, truly wanted to be with me.

To be fair- even with my lack of knowledge on why,
Knowing of his mental illness and the stress from everything he was trying to accomplish at the end of our relationship,
I can't fully blame him for shutting me out anymore.
For, chances are, just being too overwhelmed with trying to balance too much personal life,
With too much work life.

And after the breakup, and until I moved away from him,
I will admit I was.. Rude.
Distasteful.
Very, very angry.

I was angry at him.
I was angry at the world.
I was angry at the situations-
But most of all,
I was angry at me.

I will not hide that,
While I could go and apologize,
Tell him I'll possibly see him on campus if I ever get accepted into his- and my dream- college.

And truth be told I just want to look him in the eyes,
And say, for the first and last time with this meaning,
"Always."

Always…
Always will love you.
Always will support you.
Always will keep our memories together cherished.
Always will remember.

I will always remember,
My dear girl,
The happiness he gave me.

And I will always hope
That he can pass that happiness onto you.

He is a goofball.
He is loving.
He is so, so kind,
And usually very patient.

His best subject is math.
His two favourite go-to, warm weather outfits are either a polo and khaki shorts,
Or a tshirt and gym shorts.

He will wear long sleeved shirts with shorts.
I've seen it so many times.
He only wears jeans when it's warm if he absolutely has to.
His humor is either crude, cracking dad jokes,
Or mocking your whining.

His friend Josh may very well get close to you, too.
Josh is a good man. Do not take his company for granted.
He can offer valuable insight to his best friends brain.
They work very, very similarly.

His hogwarts house is slytherin,
He's allergic to cats,
and after going down to as much as I could see on his moms facebook page a few months into us dating,
I can even tell you his entire natal chart for zodiacs.

Even if he doesn't believe in that hippy dippy ****,
He will amuse you enough to listen to you talk about it if you are.

Send him cute little pictures. Whenever you feel cute, send him one.
He will lavish you with attention.
He will call you gorgeous and beautiful and every other sweet name under the book.

He will love you like no man has ever loved you because he is still so new to this.

My dear,
Love him enough for the both of us.
I beg of you.

I lost him completely already,
I've honestly not even a chance to eber reconcile the friendship with him.
And I have come to terms with that,
I have come to terms with the deep seated love that will remain in my heart for eternity.
So please,
Love him. For me, for you, for him.

Even though you hurt me
I knew you once
And still, I told myself
I thought I'd never know a love like that
I thought that I loved you
But you hurt me
I thought that I knew you
Even though I didn't actually,
It kept going.
You didn't love me, even though
I fought for you.

I miss you.
I miss those soft blue eyes,
And that startlingly blonde hair,
And your jokes.

I miss the way your voice would lilt
Whenever you asked a question,
Or the way you would immediately go calm
And just ask me to hold your hand when I was upset.

I miss the fact that I can no longer just go up to you,
And pretend like my day has been okay,
Just so I could see your smile.

I miss that smile.
I miss when that smile was mine,
When I could make it happen with just three little words.

But you never actually meant it whenever you said it,
Those three little words never actually meant anything,
Even if you thought they did.

I know they didn’t.
Because you simply cannot just move on
So quickly, because you just can’t
Have that time with someone all of a sudden mean nothing like that,
If you actually loved them.

Kid, as much as I miss you,
You are not the man I need.
You are just a boy.

The real me is a ****** person
The real me is a *****
The real me feels too much
The real me screams
The real me fights back
The real me loves way too much
The real me is too loyal
The real me is too petty
The real me hurts people.

The real me isn’t quiet
The real me is scared, though,
The real me is a **** victim,
The real me has PTSD,
The real me has BPD,
The real me doesn’t really know how to cope-
The real me doesn’t believe that suicide isn’t the answer.

The real me covers up,
Hides under blankets of sweet smiles,
And being polite,
And calmness.

The real me covers up,
Hides under blankets of poetry,
And sleep,
And other people’s personality traits.

The real me doesn’t really know who he is.
The real me fights with himself every single day.
The real me likes makeup but is actually scared to wear it-
The real me forces himself to wear dresses because even if it makes him happy

He’s so scared to be called fake-
The real me is so scared to be called fake-
Please stop calling him fake-
He wouldn’t want to rip off his feminine skin if he wasn’t fake-
He wouldn’t hate all his features if he was fake-

HE WOULDN’T HAVE DYSPHORIA IF HE WAS FAKE-
HE HAS DYSPHORIA-
And it hurts,
God it hurts,
Even the fake me feels it-
And both of the mes hurt.

If people wanna hurt you,
They're not worth it.
They're not worth fighting for
Like you thought they were.

And I know you just wanna help,
But baby, save your energy,
It's not worth it.

Suicidal thoughts plague my entire being.
There are days I want to take my life.
I get ignored by the people
Claiming to be my friends.
I sometimes wonder,
How different everyone's lives would be,
if I was dead.

I haven't written anything in over a month,
and I think it was my medication
That actually made me a tad bit better.

But the problem was I was so tired.
My grades started dropping.
I couldn't fight it.
I was a liar.

People would ask, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, just a bit of a rough day," I'd say.

It's not getting me far.

I've been hospitalised twice in my life,
Carried by an ambulance once,
and I've tried committing thrice.

Suicidal thoughts plague my entire being.

Dear Alex, of our freshman year,

You do not deserve this pain.
The pain he has inflicted- Yes,
You admittedly hurt him too,
But you do not deserve the pain he has given unto you.

You do not deserve the suffering that she has given,
For the threats upon your life,
The hours spent wondering what you did wrong-
Baby you did nothing wrong.
She just doesn’t accept you
And you scare her
And so she takes it out as anger.

You escape her, darling,
I promise.
It has been a year since you moved out in my time,
And you are doing so much better.

Life gets better.

Little me,
Life gets better.

You go and buy new binders,
Ones that fit as you gain your weight back,
You start finding real friends,
Find a real lover.

You lose a lot of people as time goes on.
But you learn to let go,
Move forward,
You learn to be okay.

You have people you have to stay for.
People who love you.
They help you.

It’s going to be okay,
So, so soon.

You’re going to be okay.
Sincerely,
Alex, of our junior year.

My childhood was messy.
I know that much,
However I do not know most of what happened.

I’ve a feeling, a few memories,
Of being beat,
Dragged across the floor by my hair-
He was most likely drunk.

I’ve forgiven him, now,
Working towards a decent relationship.
We rarely talk.

I remember some of my childhood,
A few good memories,
My hand in my mother’s back pocket,
As we walked through Wal-Mart,
Looking for food.

The peace I felt,
Is what I wish I had once more.

My childhood had many,
Many ups and downs,
And perhaps I truly didn’t have one,
But that’s okay.

I’m learning.

When resting, with my head on his chest
And his arms wrapped around me
I find peace.

It is hard for me to sleep like this,
Ideas of love poems come flitting by,
Passing thoughts that do not last long.
But they are calm.
They are.. Peaceful.

It had not been for a while that his arms
Found me again,
and the solace is once more given back
as the weeks had gone by
I had begun to question my sanity.

But as his arms do find me,
Once more, on a bed that has seen me cry
More tears than I can count
I am at peace
but this love poem
Flitting through my mind
Lingers just long enough for me to capture it.

In his arms,
I find peace.

I hate this.
I hate looking at my body-
I hate looking at my chest-
I hate this.

I hate scratching at my limbs,
Tugging on bras and binders,
Tugging on pants that remind me
My shape is the most feminine I’ve seen for a trans male-

I’m not even fully a boy but this dysphoria
This dysphoria is here and
I don’t want it.
But I can’t get rid of this body-
There are days I like this body but
I don’t always want this body and today
Is one of the days I don’t want this body and I just.
I’m tired of this body right now.

Dear First Love,
When it comes down to it,
I would still do anything for you.

I would still throw down my life,
And give up everything,
If you asked me to.

I will always love you,
No matter if you ever loved me but
Part of me thinks you did, otherwise
I don't think you would've cried twice,
And honestly,
I don't really know what I'm doing without you
By my side.

Dear first love,
I honestly want to scream “*******”
At the top of my lungs
Because you made a habit
Of using me for nothing but your entertainment.

You would disappear for months at a time,
At one point, even a few years,
And would only text because you were lonely.
Because I was an outlet that you knew I would fall into
Your arms time and time again.

Dear first love,
I am finally standing up to you.
I am finally not letting you take advantage of me.
I am finally being strong enough to let you go,
Because being away from you, fully, 100%
Made me realize
I really don’t need you.

Dear first love?
*******.

Pull his jacket,
Up to your nose,
Inhale.
Face in his shoulder,
Surrounded by him,
Inhale.
Feel at peace.
Nourish your soul.

Swish swish,
Sweep sweep,
I sit and clean out my heart.
Throw away the hate,
Rid of the anger,
And replace it with love
And hope.

"Darling," he told you,
"You're perfect as you are."
You sit, and you frown,
And you come up with a million reasons
He is wrong.

But deep down,
You want to believe him.

Little skirts,
Sparkly things,
Bright red lipstick-
This isn't what I wanted.

Smiling brightly,
Enjoying life,
Feeling like I'm supposed to
Is what I really wanted.

The colour of his eyes,
I smile.
It's a soft, light, shiny blue.
Blue, just lighter than the sky,
It's a nice kind of blue.

Ever since the last break up I've had,
I've been too terrified to write love poetry.
But he's inspiring,
This new boy I've fallen for.
With bright blue eyes,
and soft blonde hair,
He is a love poem in of himself.

It's always quiet at 4 a.m.,
The sun is not yet over the horizon,
The birds are not singing,
and everything is silent.

Sitting out in a little yard,
A snake in my hands,
Curled up in a lawn chair,
I am at peace.

It is 6 a.m. when I go back inside,
For real, anyways,
The snake in the tank as I sit and I hum,
Waiting for the house to wake up.

The sun rising in the sky,
The birds singing their songs,
I am still at peace.

It is 7 a.m.
When breakfast is made,
And everything is loud once more.
I sit in a room,
Hiding my ears,
and try to rest for once.

These morning just repeat,
And repeat,
Until the week later I leave,
I say good bye to my family,
and rest in a new yard,
Watching the sunrise again.

It is 4 a.m. when I awake,
and sit, curled up in a chair,
with a dog by my side,
remembering my mother.

Usually,
Me taking a nap means it’s getting bad again.
Genuinely there are just times,
I am tired,
But most time’s I’m not, and..
A nap is how you can tell it’s getting bad again.

How you can rest assured that I
Spend my hours listening to the demons scream inside my head,
The ones that remind me I am worth nothing,
You can tell if they’re being too loud again.

When I’m constantly rubbing at my eyes,
Or scratching at my ears,
You know it’s getting bad again-
When I mark up my thighs every few weeks because
I just don’t know what else to do-
That is for sure how you know it is getting bad again.

Even if if it’s just four or five little marks,
Throughout two weeks,
It is still a sign that it is getting bad again
That it’s getting too loud again
That I’m starting to break again.

And I’m trying to get better.
I believe learning to see those signs in myself
Has taught me how to show other people a bit better,
Without actually breaking,
Without screaming and crying at
The top of my lungs..

It’s been months since my last giant, life threatening fit like that.
I mean, where I was vocal and just about did do it.
I have small ones,
Where I ask if I can **** up,
or wonder if it’s worth it

And those are another sign it’s getting bad again.
That the stress is too much to handle again that
That I’m ****** if I don’t do something soon and

That’s how you tell if it’s getting bad again.

When it festers, I go into fight mode,
I lunge for a throat and I scream,
I yell,
I hit.

I try not to, I do, it's the first time I've ever gotten into a fight-
Much less do I really care, honestly,
I don't regret it.
It'd been coming for months,
But that's how you know for sure it's gotten really bad again.

I try to be honest, tell therapists and psychiatrists,
I think I'm doing better,
I honestly think I'm doing better until-
I break.

I'm just so tired again.

I don’t think this is an addiction.
No, honestly, it’s just the cat.
No, really, I just fell,
No, I’m positive, I hit a table and-

I don’t think this is an addiction.
If it were an addiction,
I would have to be out of control,
And I’m not doing it five times a day,
now am I?
Though admittedly I think about it,
Five hundred times a day this-
This is not an addiction.

This is not an addiction, I assure you,
when I’m well aware that’s what this is,
When I smile and say that “I’m fine,”
I hope you come to realize that most times,
It’s a lie, and-

“No, really, I ran into the coffee table,”
I grumble to my therapist.
I’ve gotten so good at hiding this that,
“No, I’m serious” and a forced look of honesty
Somehow gets me by.

“This is not an addiction,” I cry,
When I know, deep inside,
That, again, that is was this is.

This.. This is an addiction.
Cuts not healing for three weeks,
Thinking about it for hours at a time,
Wanting the euphoria of bleeding,
On the bathroom floor,
This.. This is an addiction.

This is an addiction, I scream,
Finally taking it for what it is as my friends,
My lover,
My mother,
All yell at me to put my blade down,
To lay down,
To breathe.

They scream at me
To end this seemingly endless cycle
That I’ve been going through
For a little over five years.

The nurse practitioner I saw the other day,
Told me,
“I want you to have a list
Of thirteen things
You can do before you resort
To cutting.”

And I want that to happen.

But this..
This is an addiction.
And it’s going to take a long time to recover.

So far,
I’ve managed to stop the police calls,
The hospital visits,
Some of the more larger issues.
The ones that leave me
worse off than where I started
To an extreme.

I’m still recovering.
I think I’m always going to be recovering,
I don’t think it’s ever gonna leave the back of my mind..
But this.. This is not an addiction.
This is recovery.

Hi, mommy.
Do you remember me?

I'm sure you do. You've not been gone long.
And you said you'd follow me anywhere I went.

I lost the locket you gave me.
I think an old friend who 'can't find my stuff' has it.
It makes me upset that I lost it.
I'm sorry, mommy.

Do you remember that locket?
It took us so long to pick it out.
And you gave me a thick chain,
because you know I like to play with my necklaces.

You put your little saying on the back.
'See the beauty.'
I still remember that, mommy.

"Find something beautiful in nature every day,
And think of me,"
You told me.
I remember it. I do, mommy.

I miss you, mommy.
Life's not the same without you-
Which, is to be expected,
But our house has changed a lot.

It's brown now, mommy,
Instead of yellow.
I don't like it.
It doesn't look right.

It doesn't look like home anymore.

Do you remember the color yellow, mommy?
It was your favorite.
Like daffodils,
Or some roses.

I miss those, mommy.
Every time I see a daffodil I get sad now.

Do you remember, mommy?

There's a bunch of small things about you that most wouldn't notice,
That I just happen to love.

Like the star-like pattern of little golden flecks in your beautiful brown eyes,
Or remembering how soft your lips were against mine.
Or that goofy smile you give whenever someone actually makes you laugh.
It's different from your usual, kind of faked smile.

I doubt anyone but me and you
Remember the fact that, well,
You called James Madison a little *****.
Or that my running joke with you is 'smonk the wed.'

I doubt anyone really sees the way a few of your teeth are just a little bit crooked,
Or the way your eyes and nose crinkle up sometimes if you smile wide enough.

I doubt anyone remembers that time you wore my cat ears to comicon,
Or, really, the fact that you still have them- somewhere.
Or the goofy way you called me out on instagram for not liking pickles.

I still remember feeling your hand in mine.
I still remember stealing your definitely too small for me hoodies,
I still remember being in theatre with you.

I still remember admiring your eyes,
And the way your hair curled into ringlets when it got down to your ears,
And the way it felt between my fingers.

I still remember the way your voice calmed me down,
Or the day before thanksgiving when you called me, crying,
Begging me to stay on the Earth just a little bit longer.

I still remember you next to me.
I still remember all the little things, too.

I didn’t start actually enjoying coffee until I was eleven.
The first time I drank a full cup it was followed by ten more.
It was the first day my mother was in the hospice house.

I started drinking coffee on a pretty solid basis while I was there,
I teamed it with my nutella sandwiches,
This was back when I was unconcerned about my weight.

I often watched the sunrise.
I watched it climb over the sky until the very moment it was blue,
Only a few other people would be awake besides the nurses and I,
I felt calm. For a long second.

I remember watching the sunrise and thinking everything would be okay,
Sipping my coffee, wrapped in a blanket,
Calm.

It was like that the day she died.
I stopped drinking coffee.

It wasn’t until I was fifteen I started drinking coffee on a regular basis again,
I used it to comfort me the first hour of the day,
But then it was just a burden to be carried.
This went on for two months before I just.. Stopped taking coffee.
I started drinking a friends, instead.

Sometimes, anyways.

Part of me wonders if I should start taking it again,
Let it warm me up when I wait for the bus and maybe,
Maybe bring my mother close to me.

It used to be impossible to see me without a coffee cup in my hand.

Now it is rare.
I wonder if it is my mother trying to get me to stop grieving.
Because I connect my coffee to her.

Today's cup tastes exactly like hers.

I switched homes in late June,
from Missouri to Kansas.
I came to a new school-
one I saw when I was young,
but never had much interest in.
That's not really important,
Not as important as the fact I've been trying to make new friends.

Yet so much of me is scarred,
from the isolation,
from the manipulation,
from the ****.

There are days I think I see your face in the hallway.
My gut panics, but on the outside,
I look at my friends,
or straight ahead,
and that swing of feigned confidence
goes to my hips,
and I act as if I am not afraid.

So much of me is scarred from the fear.
You made me too terrified to accept physical affection from a lover-
or even a friend-
for over sixth months.

It took so much out of me hold Adrian’s hand.
But I did it.
Ever since that break up-
minus a five month gap-
he had been the only one to care for me.
And I am so grateful for that.

But now, nearing the end of the year,
inching closer to February,
I have so much anxiety.

I am afraid you know where I live.
I am afraid you still have my phone number.
I am afraid for my life.

I had a panic attack at midnight,
because I am finally revealing
the full extent of the fear you have caused me
to my dearest.

You have made me afraid to share my pains.
You have made me experience a fear no one should have to experience.

You have made me experience terror.

Today, I typed into my Google search bar
“How to stop being trans.”

I am so desperately attempting to repress my identity I felt the need to Google it,
I spend day in, and day out, watching women on the internet talk about what it is like to be a woman.
Even now, that concept confuses me.

There is something I will never truly understand about being a woman-
That is the feeling of being female.
It’s something I’ve never really had, even though I go through those hardships and more.
I am talked about like I am an object, referred to as “it” by so many kids at this school,
Just as many of the transgender students going to my school are.

I am treated physically like an object whenever I attempt to present as a woman,
And I realize there is no way to go around being an “it.”
Nothing more than a mere object used for someones entertainment,
Thrown away when they have gotten their thrill out of me.
I am nothing more than a cancelled TV show
Who’s reruns are on at midnight, or early Sunday morning.

I am nothing more than the little wooden toys toddlers play with,
Thought of as ‘cute’ when young,
But told I am to grow out of the phase of playing with toys.
Told to grow out of the phase of being a boy.

No matter how short I cut my hair, or how tight the binders I wear are,
How baggy the jeans, or how many button-ups or flannels I buy,
I am told it is just a phase.

I have been fighting with my identity in the open for nearly five years.
First, it was an internet presence,
I learned the word “genderfluid.”
I used that term for a good three months,
And then I found a new word.
“Agender.”

I was agender for years,
Even somewhat out at the school I went to-
In the fifth grade, I was asked what I truly was.
This question is going to be repeated until the day I die.

In seventh grade, something fully dawns on me.
I am nothing more than a transgender boy with an affinity for putting art on my face.
I panic as I tell the four people I had in my arsenal at the time.
Thus begins the era of “Brodie.”

This lasts for a few months, until I am uncomfortable with the name.
I finally, for two years, settle on the name “Alexander,”
And then, at the end of eighth grade, I am ready to come out to teachers.

No one is able to keep up with it, because it had been at the very end,
But as I start my highschool career, I confidently call out,
“I prefer Alexander.”

The people in my old band class don’t really think twice, but a small murmur falls through the crowd of the homophobes in the corner.
My German teacher opens the idea with wide arms, and takes me under her wing.
I become her son.
I start pondering a new name in the last month of the first year, twisting it over my tongue.
“Julian.”
I like the way it sounds, but no one thinks it fits me.
I sigh, and repress the name until nearly the very middle of my sophomore year.

In my freshman year, I had once Googled the same question.
It has been a year of attempting to repress it on my own.
Google Search still does not give me an answer.

I realize that I am nothing more than a transgender boy.

At this point, my only friends are the ghosts inside my head.
The ones that remind me of every time I have messed up in my life,
That tell me, every time I hear a song from a musical I’ve been in,
Or a line from a show I’ve helped with,
Or something an old friend used to say.
Every time I hear one of those it reminds me how much of a ***** up I am.
How I’m talentless.
How I’ll never be one of the choir kids to go to a contest anymore.

I’m nothing more than a mistake.
I’ve searched, for a long time, for one thing I’m good at.
I enjoy things like theatre, until someone gives me that look.
The look that says they’re shocked that I could be that bad at something.

Both of my teachers have given me that look.
My best friends have given me that look.
The boy I fell in love with my freshman year has given me that look more times than I can count.

So.. I quit.
I quit choir.
I quit band.
I quit drama,
And musicals,
And plays,
And being stagehand.

I quit drawing.
I quit writing.
I only write anymore to throw my emotions out on a page like it’ll help-
It never does.
I just end up taking it out on myself either way.

My only friends are the ones inside my head,
Because they are the only ones honest with me.

I know that they are right when they say I am pudgy,
And too short, or too feminine.
I know that they are right when they say I will never achieve my dreams of living in Washington Heights,
Working at small time theatres-
Because that would mean someone would have to love my audition enough to actually cast me.

I’ve only ever gotten into shows where they accept everyone.

My only friends are the ones inside my head,
Because they see things the way I see things.
That the red scars decorating my thighs make me a little more beautiful.
Or that people will only love me when I am skin and bones.

I know that I will never dance or sing again,
But that will not stop me from trying to win the beauty pageant that is life.
I want to be the skinniest.
I want to be nothing but skin and bones and muscle.

I want to be beautiful.

And the voices, like true friends,
Want me to pursue that dream.

And the voices, like true friends,
Want me to die.
Because that is my dream.
And true friends support your dreams,
And wishes,
And the like.

These voices in my head want me as gone as I want me gone,
As much as everyone else wants me gone but won’t admit it-
But they admit it. They say it loudly.

According to a quick google search,
It takes the average adult 7 full minutes to die by suffocation,
Meaning that in under ten minutes,
I could just lay on my bed and die.

Part of me wants to.
A big part of me wants to,
Whether or not I get called a quitter,
Or called sick, grotesque names
Or have a memorial service at the school.

Everyone would forget me after the obligatory memorial anyways,
I remind myself.
One assembly and my story would be gone.
One assembly and my face will never again see the light-
I wouldn’t regret it.
Just like how I only regret trying whenever I get caught.
Reminding myself that it’s best to do when no one will look for you for a few hours.

According to a quick bit of math,
From the time I wrap whatever I find around my neck and suffocate myself,
To exactly the moment I die seven minutes later,
Almost eleven people will have died.
One will be in the process as well.

I just want to be one of the ones every forty seconds,
I want to be free.
I just want to be free.
I don’t want to feel,
I don’t want to touch,
I don’t want anything much.

I want darkness.
A void.
The feeling of never waking up.

I already feel the void in my gut,
What is the difference that in seven minutes I will feel it everywhere?

It only takes seven minutes to suffocate physically,
But it only takes an instantaneous second to feel suffocated with anger in my own chest.
It bubbles and settles in the dark pit of my stomach,
A feeling I can only actually get rid of if I slit open my thighs on repeat.
The same action on repeat.
Repeat.

It only takes seven minutes to suffocate physically,
But it only takes an instantaneous second to feel suffocated with pain in my own chest.
A feeling I can only get rid of if I slit open my wrists on repeat.
The same action on repeat.
Repeat.

According to a quick google search,
It takes the average adult 7 full minutes to die by suffocation,
Meaning that by the time my mom got home,
I could’ve died at least 30 times over.
I’ll have to sit down and try it tonight,
I’ll have to strangle myself out tonight.

No one will actually care.

My love,

I fell in love with you when I was young.
I remember that you first came to me when I held a hunting knife in my hand,
In front of a 3 ½ by 4 foot mirror.
You found me in the blood that stained my arms.
You came to me, initially, in sets of three.
I was eleven when you came to me.

It was December, I remember, when people found out I loved you.
My cousin asked about the red marks you leave on my arms,
I yanked my sleeve up in fear and responded “It’s just the cat.”
I never wanted to admit I had fallen in love with the most terrifying thing I could imagine.

The kids at school found out about you around this time-
I’d left my hoodie at home, and I couldn’t wear a coat to classes.
Everyone saw your aftermath.
I am surprised the counselor did not call me in to talk about you.

My love,

You had my aunt so angry with me she started to abuse me,
I remember her screaming at me getting worse every time she found out I had relapsed-
How she got more irritable.
I know that in the beginning she meant well-
But eventually, she just started trying to permanently hospitalize me.

You made her believe I was a freak, darling.

My love,

You found me in more ways as the years went on,
You started to mess with my body image and force down my food intake,
And then you forced my teeth to find my leg in a hospital bathroom
because I couldn’t take you back to your roots
Those roots where I held a four inch blade in my hand in a tiny bathroom
In front of the widest bathroom mirror I had ever seen,
Next to a towel clad window-

You eventually made me bruise myself to the point where I had dark brown splotches over my thighs for two and a half weeks.

My love,
I have loved you for five years this coming October.
It’s odd, thinking we’ve been together this long.
I still remember, vaguely, what we looked like together that first time-
I still see your ghost on my arms.

It’s been a month since the last time I’ve talked to you fully,
I’m not counting the days you whisper in my ears and I pull at my hair, you see,
But I can still see the last time we talked.
It’s the pink little mark down the center of my wrist that reminds me we were ever lovers,
And I’m terrified I’m coming back to you worse than ever.

My love,

You scare me.
I mean it. You genuinely scare me,
Because you make me feel so much better for a few hours until I realize I have to get undressed in front of people,
Because I don’t just have a room to myself anymore.

I have been found out about loving you seven times this last year alone from adults.
But I got smarter than most people.
I hide them in better places,
Scar up my hip bones and hiss whenever I move the wrong way
Or have to peel my clothes from the little marks you leave.

My love,

I love you.
I hate what you do but I love you.
I love that you make me feel better for a few minutes,
But I hate when everything goes downhill five minutes later.

I love you.
I’m sorry.