Dear grandma, the doctors said I was born a girl why don't I feel like a girl? If I rip open my chest will the answers come pouring out for you
Dear grandma, you told me to take off the dress up I've been wearing these past few months so you could be happy with me accepting the body I was given but I have yet to be that butterfly that hatches out of the cocoon this body has been. Dear grandma you told me God and Satan are in a war and I am the prize they win for whoever is the champion.  you told me this is just an act and I need to quit it I may be a theater kid but I'm not this good at make believe. I am not after all this witch you think I am, or rather warlock if you will. Dear grandma if I starve myself enough will that reset my body into thinking of myself in female perspective
Dear grandma, do you know I live in fear everyday not just for my life but I fear even saying the wrong words to make you explode like the bomb that took the twin towers out….  so i've learned to live in silence.
Dear grandma,  start planning her funeral she's no longer with us and her presence  has long been forgotten by most her  name  no longer exist, my tongue stopped forming that name as soon as i grew up. I've been trying to tell you this all along but I just barely got the courage to let you know so lets light her memories up in flames and with the ashes make my new identity a reality because right now it feels like I'm living in fantasy. Dear grandma, I know you are old school and you don't understand how this works, I will teach you. My pronouns are male so refer to me as him, or he. tory has never quite fit so let's scrawl that on the tombstone you can cry and throw the roses but grandma this is me. I know you raised me for most of my life and you feel as if I'm betraying your trust by being True to myself but grandma wearing cologne is not gross and I'm tired of biting my tongue when you put your two cents in. you said every time I act like someone I'm not the devil wins, so with every inch  the blade dug itself into upon my wretched skin I was just trying to find the loophole out of this. Grandma I don't let my poetry get too deep it's always skin deep because if I let it go any further it everyone will see the body dysphoria. They say that the eyes Are windows to the soul grandma but why does it feel like mines shattered from all those religious talks you keep stacking on me. Dear grandma, this Christmas I just want you to spell my name right. Dear grandma, today's Christmas and I just want acceptance.dear Grandma stop throwing the ******* pebbles at me they have turned into the boulders dragging me down to the bottom of the ocean that I use to think was your love.  Dear grandma, I'm begging you all to love me and to stay but it's so hard when you keep pulling away, you cut the ties from the rubber bands so you wouldn't bounce back to me because loving me is a job you were never hired to do. Because loving me was never taught in your high school classes. Because calling me part of your family was something Jesus told you not to do. So dear grandma, who's gonna love me when you all walk out like a homeless person from a soup kitchen. Dear judy, I guess I should use your name now because you can't seem to be a grandma. Dear judy, it feels like pins and needles are crawling through every orifice of my body when you tell me that I can't be who I'm meant to be. Dear judy, My names jaxton, and I understand if you never want to talk to me but I guess that's the price I will pay for being the pill you just can't swallow. So dear grandma, I'm sorry god told you to stop loving the demon that I am.

he said to you on a friday afternoon,
a cup of coffee
held by hands
which dilapidated
on top of
deific disasters;

“promises are meant to be broken,” whispering,
like he did not want you
to hear the inner war cry
he kept on using
at nights he stayed awake,
only his thoughts as a perfect company
as he keeps a conversation
only the moon and him
know the existence of.

when you reached out to hold his hands
that were painted in shades of blue and grey,
it felt like forever
since your hands brushed
something so eloquent
even after the ungodly hours
he still called his decisions as mistakes,

or when he promised you
that the grandeurs of life
are crushed into smithereens
on his sturdy palms,
not telling you about the stubborn apparitions
refusing to let go
of everything it once held dear;

when he flipped through the pages
of a worn-out scrapbook
like it was your
place of solitude,
staring at each snapshot longingly;

when he promised you that
he, too, would not let go
even after the nights
he calculated the
possibility of you leaving him;

when he told you
that he was a troubled painter,
sketching the familiar taste of dysphoria
dawning over him every time
he was told he was onerous;

when he promised you that
he would finish every painting
but he kept each canvas hidden
under the floor boards.

you told him on a saturday morning,
a cup of tea
held by puckish hands
which built walls
around everything
your little heart desired,

“then, why make them?”