We all have skeletons in our closets,
Spooky ghouls with hollowed out eyes and slacked jaws,
Ready to spill our secrets like ants to a picnic.

My skeleton is different,
He talks to me at night,
In the dark when I'm scared of what others would say,
He's there to comfort me, with spooky whispers of jokes,
Back chat with the monster under my bed,
Always making me laugh.
But he does all this from the closet, I'm not ready to let him out yet.

When I get home from school, I can't ignore him.
I hope nobody finds out,
But it's getting easier to speak to him now.
His hollow eyes aren't so bad, and he's beginning to look very familiar.

When the sandman arrives, he's not very pleased,
To see me still awake, talking to my skeleton, no dreams in sight.

He tells me funny stories of his times with Medusa,
Drabbles about Mary, how he talked to her through a mirror,
Before he got taken here.

He always gets quiet when he talks about here,
As he slowly slides the door of the closet closed,
Mumbling an excuse of time and school the next morning.

I concentrate less in my classes lately,
I feel bad for the skeleton in my closet.
He used to talk fondly of his time with the mummies, how he was fond of vampires and laughed with werewolves.
Now he walks slowly, quietly, sad.
He misses them, I can tell, but I just can't let him go.

What will everyone say when they find out?
His wrists look thinned, his jaw seems tighter.
He looks oh so familiar, why can't I place him?

My mum says she's worried,
that I'm eating less, looking pale.
I pay no attention, I just go to my room.
My skeleton is waiting for me.
Always waiting.

I don't really go outside much now, just stay between my sheets,
Imagining it's my coffin, my door the the world the skeleton described,
Where everyone was who they were meant to be,
Nobody cared.
I wish nobody cared here.

I try to ignore my skeleton, but it's impossible.
I can hear his bones rattling as I lay awake at night,
Imaging what it would be like in the underworld,
If I would be a ghost, a demon maybe.
I wonder if demons are as kind as my skeleton.
I hope so.

My skeleton makes me feel safe,
Feel myself.
I wish I could have my skeleton with me at school.
To make me laugh, give me confidence.
But I can't let him out.
He's my biggest secret.

My dad would say "we need to talk" and I'd panic.
What if he found my skeleton? How would he know?
Nobody was supposed to know.
He tells me I need at stop,
Start going out,
Stop skipping meals.
He says I look too thin.
He says he can see my bones.
If only he knew what he'd really see if my skin was so transparent.
He said I look like a skeleton.
And deep down I know he's right.


We all have skeletons in our closets.
Gentle creatures with sharp teeth,
Who could ruin us at any moment.
But my skeleton is different.
My skeleton is me.
And it's time I set him free.

When you meet a person the first instinct is to know their name,
A proper noun to represent them as a whole,
A name can define you,
And make you a person, not just a being.
So when people ask my name, why is it that I am so pained to admit it?
The name I was given at birth,
my dear loving parent had picked out so carefully from all the rest,
why must it hurt so much to admit?
Why can't I appreciate my name?
Why don't It feel like it is my name?

My name is dysphoria, you answer to me, you're weak, I can tell, so cry on your knees

"Such a pretty name" they say,
"It suits you so well" they say,
But it makes me sick to my stomach,
I just want to hurl those letters into oblivion,
A garbled mess from which I can reform who I am.
Reform my name.
And my father wonders why I wear thick jumpers in the summer,
My mother looks concerned when she sees my lack of breath,
From the construction of the 4 sports bras on my chest.
And from her lips slips that horrid name.
And it's like I can breathe even less.

My name is dysphoria, you answer to me, you're weak, I can tell, so beg in your knees

My aunt wonders why I cut my pretty hair,
My grandad thinks it's weird that I won't wear a dress,
I don't get why "God" is angry when clearly it's just them,
I thought he taught us to love each other?
Does this rule not apply to me?
"A loving daughter" yeah right;
Just you wait and see.

My name is dysphoria, you answer to me, disgusting, revolting, now spout me your plea.

My sister tries to be supportive but I can tell she doesn't get it,
My mother doesn't mention it,
My father hardly looks at me.
But they don't understand the joy I felt,
When I took that first injection.
My hormones set on fire,
My blood set a light,
And for once in my life-
My body started to feel right.

My name is dysphoria, you should answer to me, disgusting, revolting, a girl in boys clothing.

And yeah, my family might not use my new name,
But it's on my driver's license,
My passport,
My soul,
And finally I was excited to introduce myself to people.
Finally I was happy to exist,
I was happy to be me-
A boy at last.
With a real name: Rory.