Mother wept for weeks when you died.
Her cries rang throughout the house
as if she had put a microphone up to her mouth.
She demanded to know why I killed her daughter.
Where was the daughter who wore floral skirts to spin around in?
Where was the daughter who wore shimmering gold makeup as a way to be pretty?
Where was the daughter that begged for her hair braided like Katniss every morning?
She demanded answers but I don’t know if you actually ever existed.

I know you tried to exist.
I know you kept trying to stop me from ‘taking your place’
by devouring every feminine stereotype you could find.
I couldn’t live repressed under emotions you refused to address.
I couldn’t survive as you tried every title besides the correct one.
I couldn’t stand the sight of you in the mirror or photos
I still can’t.

Maybe I did **** you as I cut my hair shorter than you wanted.
I killed you by throwing out all your favorite clothing items.
I killed you by no longer letting you be the ideal daughter.
I killed you just like I started to **** our family.
All it took was a simple letter saying I wasn’t a girl, but instead a boy.
The silent treatment felt more like a punishment for wanting to be me.
I was cut off while I still lived in the same house as them.
The only thing is that I would **** you again,
but only if I got to see you crumble away every time.

And if I close my eyes
even for a moment
you might be gone
and I'll be alone
again.

No more
No more
No ******* more

So done with you and how
I was the first yet last
choice.

I constantly lived in fear
you would pick him over
me.
A girl you were supposed to
******* love.

But no,
you were falling
for others and you want
me to like you again

It's cold,
the bed
we once
shared.

I'm alone,
now that
your heartbeat
has ceased.

We no longer
share a
connection,
well that
was after
you left
me.

So why do I cry
over someone who
could never love
me back again?