If my life were a movie it would be one of those films that gets hyped up to no end because I’m one of those kids with the rough childhood who just wants to make it
When in reality it’s just a less action packed but just as dark dc movie
My story has also been confused with a marvel movie since the protagonist is me
And i can't help but cut my overbearing traumatic tragedies with self deprecating comedies
But my life to me feels more like an edgar wright movie where the action isn’t as exciting as The fact that I was able to get out of bed this morning
And my day to day reality will forever feel like a motion blur of edited out negative emotion
I think Maybe my life could be a wes anderson movie stuck in one color palette for the rest of my eternity
And my maturity tends to overwhelm me
my journey is like an anderson movie because i tend to create a world around me
Taking time to shape my own protected reality so that the outside world can’t hurt inside me
If im being honest though i want my life to be a spielberg movie that grabs attention of all ages coming from all sorts of places
I want to spin my truths into his fantastic fantasies where no one equates my past with me
But at the same time I want my life to be a blast from the past john hughes movie where i find a way to stop my past from haunting me
And everything ends up okay at the end of the day because my minds overbearing insecurities
No longer have control over me
Now i see that in actuality other peoples movies are just too much for who i truly want to be and how my trauma impacts me
I mean between my all of those boring biographies and my abundance of favorite movies
I’d want my life’s movie to be full of images depicting my fondest memories and all my angsty gen z tendencies
If my life were a movie i’d make it about how I am, or was, or am going to be
If my life were a movie I’d make it about me
Its march 20th 5:30 in the morning
And i wake up to the sound of my overbearing self-deprecation
Ringing through the front of my frontal lobe
They grow louder and louder as i begin to look down at a body
I wish didn't belong to me
Soon but not soon enough i'll pry away my eyes and try not to cry
Over the size of my chest or my voice that’s two octaves too high
I’ll blink back the tears out of fear that somehow someone would see
I’ll simply shut my eyes tight and hope that I’ll vanish from the worlds sight
It’s march 20th 6:00 in the morning and my school alarm finally sounds
Under that blaring beat i begin to hear a voice softly speaking
Its careful cadence reminds me to remember my binder
The voice begins to grow louder and louder every second
It’s sound set on letting me know why i need to know what i can’t show,
Can’t say, and can’t
So I’ll suffer while I squeeze into the single thing sure
To ensure that all my efforts will mean something at end of the day
The voice quieting as I struggle to breathe deeply
Its march 20th 6:30 in the morning and my 2nd alarm starts ringing
I’m exhausted and the secondary alarms in my brain are bringing me
Boxes of commentary carefully sorted under the names of each insecurity
As i toss myself toward my phone to turn off my phone's alarm
I want to scream at the sounds of shouts in my head
I know deep in my heart that I soon have to part with the comfort of my bed,
Deal with the alarms in my head, and go
Even though all I want is to stay surrounded by the soft safety of this comforter
I get up to get dressed and as i look into my closet
Full of things I may not want to wear but I have to
my thoughts race to remind me that that plain black tee
I wore three days last week needs to be washed and even if
I was still clean people can see the curve of my chest and the rest I don’t want to be seen
So i’ll reach for that black button up and another thought reminds me
That the pattern doesn’t quite distract the eye enough to not need
A jacket today
i turn to check the time and feelings of fear fill my brain
And see it reads 5 minutes to 7 o'clock and i havent started the walk to the bus stop
In a rush ill grab that huge hoodie i know is two sizes too big
And yank it on in hopes that hides every part I wish to shed
Since they’re what sets off those daily alarms in my head
Then i’ll rush to the bus and hope the day will disarm my dysphoria
So the bells in my head stop sounding and shouting
Throughout the depths of my mind
this isn't how I was supposed to be
I was supposed to stay innocent
but now I just stay quiet
for the words my mind whispers
have stolen the shreds of innocence
I once called my own
the childhood I held so closely
slipped through my hands
and I stopped trying to hold on to it
I'm not who I was born to be
at least not to her
the child she was supposed to raise
has disappeared and with that
has disappointed and ******* up
but who she thought I was born to be
will never be who I am
so she'll have to settle for disappointment
innocence childhood disappointment
no more structured days
waking up at 5:30am and go to school
getting home to do homework
and drifting back to sleep at 10pm
my days slowly fall to pieces
no instructions on how to fix them
so the thoughts in my head
will run rampant again
just three more months
of this restricting freedom
squeezing my thoughts and actions
until my motivations been drained
why am i to spend 12 years of my life
learning the same history 12 ways
each year getting more into depth
about how straight, white, and cis,
"all" of history just happens to be
when in reality anything that was ever
deemed abnormal or harmful to america's image
just doesn't get taught.
all these years of being sheltered from the truth
about america the great
has left me with questions i'm scared will go unanswered
I'd like to know which group of old white men
decided erasing history was a good idea
If i'm stuck learning about these so called achievements and revolutions which only came from the self proclaimed superiors
i'd like to know whose idea it was to forget about
The whips cracked in to bleeding black skin
Making it known that my ancestors were no more than a tool
No more than what white men, white masters made them in to
No more than a slave until 1865
I want to know who made it possible for my history teacher to ask me what my opinion on slavery is since i’m the only black kid in sight
When will they teach me why it’s okay for the 20 white kids in my class
To call me their ***** but it’s not okay for me to get mad about it
Please tell me how these people figured out
who all they should kindly choose to silence?
maybe they thought it's too much to cover in class
Since we have to have time to be taught about manifest destiny
And how Americans had every right to take land and lives
Because white men deserve to take what doesn’t belong to them
or maybe it's been deemed inappropriate
because they're too scared to admit
That America would rather hose down black kids
waiting for our skin to become clear and
praying for our melanin to wash off just so they would stop having to look at the skin they deemed sinful
than admit that America loves to make black people fearful.
When are we taught about who chose to write about all of
america's triumphs and good times but
somehow seemed to forget about the scars passed on to me from over 100 years ago
But didn’t know i had until i was ten years old.
And honestly that no longer surprises me i mean
America only speaks of cishet white guys.
and I bet you didn't know about very first *** pride.
It was a series of riots started because America decided
Loving who you want makes you unequal
And the only way to fix that is using force that’s lethal
Force that would leave lovers lives laying in the street like the never even lived
Force that led to June 28th through July 1st becoming riots that didn’t need to happen but the police couldn’t keep their privileged fingers off of *** people
But it’s fine because ignoring that part of history has become an American steeple.
At this point I know all the answers to every test asking about the history you feed us
In attempts to hide the truths of this country that wishes it never freed us
so stop teaching me the same
cis, straight, white history I've already
been taught 10 going on 11 years of my life
because i don't care about the men who wanted to keep my ancestors bound
Or the country that keeps trying to tell me that my love isn’t allowed
i care about the history they'll continue to ignore and erase.
i care about the history America begs me to forget.
why do i question myself?
i sit on the bus and wonder
who am i? and why am i here?
the answer seems so simple
but my brain is a full trap now.
these simple questions are now caught
and who knows when they'll be free.
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.