Go to sleep, close your eyes
Dream of broken butterflies

That tore their wings against a thorn,
The pain they've suffered since they we're born

Silver metal, shine so bright,
Scarlet blood that feels so right

Dream of blood trickling down,
Just wake up, before you drown

The moonlight shinning off your tears,
As you bleed out of your own fears

So tonight when you start to cry,
Whisper the cutter's lullaby:

Hush-a-bye baby, you're almost dead
You don't have pulse, and your pillow is red

Your family hates you and your friends let you bleed
Sleep tight with a knife, it's all you need

the cage of
my own making
made up of bones
and my own self hatred
has combusted at
the first touch of
self love

my bones dissolved
as the love poured
over them
the self hatred oozed
from the cracks
and escaped my body
never to be seen again

for the first time in years
peace flooded my brain
finally all that was left

was
just
m e

forty-eight hours is a long time to wear a binder,
and my ribs are screaming for mercy,
for a break from the compression and lack of mobility.
but it's not that easy.

sometimes i'd rather face the pain,
than face the fact that i am female.
these weights on my chest,
drag me to the ground.
i break down.

i feel locked in my body,
and all i want to do is break free.
nobody should feel the need to shower in the dark,
because the reality of their body is too much for them.
it shouldn't be this way

and i know i shouldn't compare myself to people,
but i cannot stop thinking,
'what if i were cis'.
i think of how much easier everything would be.
i wouldn't have to worry over how long i've been wearing my binder,
or if i pass,

i wouldn't have to worry about turning eighteen,
knowing i will be homeless.
but instead, my mother would celebrate her baby,
becoming a "legal adult."

forty-eight hours wouldn't be a worrying statement,
just another frame of time,
it wouldn't reflect on my self-care routines,
or lack thereof

it'd just be forty-eight hours.