I first knew I was transgender when I

was 12 and I looked down at my chest one day

and saw something other than a flat expanse

of skin staring back at me

and I wondered why

since I still really didn’t understand the difference

between boy and girl

why my ***** hadn’t come in yet



But that’s a lie

it wasn’t that sudden or dramatic

it happened earlier than that

but back then I didn’t even know

what transgender meant

all I knew that

when my friend and I were in the bath

and he pointed at his ***** and then asked

to see mine

I didn’t have anything to show

and I ran out of the bathroom

crying hot tears of jealousy



I didn’t know what transgender meant

until last year

and I was so happy because I had found a word

that described the tomboy haircut and the

scabby knees and the ripped jeans and the

worn out Chuck Taylor’s

besides it’s just a phase

you stupid silly girl



When I look down at my body

never naked

always fully clothed

because I look better in layers

and see the soft flesh sitting on my chest

the useless lumps that will never nourish a child

because I’m too afraid to bring a defenseless child into

this ****** up world

all I feel is hatred

and sadness

and a deep sense of longing to have nothing

but a flat chest

flatter than a binder can give me



Now I embrace this word

label myself because I have to

speak out and loudly correct people when they

use the wrong name and say she instead of he

because I am not a girl

I never have been

I was just born without the right genitalia

and I know that somebody would be able to

find my woman’s body beautiful

with the stretch marks

the scars

the fat and cellulite

but I do not find this cage beautiful

and all I want to do is break free

and maybe drink a fifth of *****



I do not look like a boy

but that is who I am inside

and one day I will pass as a boy

scarred cosmetic instead of statistic

a smile instead of a handful of pills

shirtless instead of new scars

flat chested without a binder

and maybe double digits



I will stand up straighter

no longer hunched over from the weight

of my shortcomings and insecurities

I will smile

and not just because I’m imagining my funeral

but not because I will be dead

but when the time comes

and I am laid to rest

two feet wide and six feet deep

I will not be misgendered

the wrong name will not be placed on my tombstone



And I still have bad days

when I want to relapse

and go back to the pills

but I just remind myself that I will

pass one day and I will no longer have

to tell my teachers

friends

counselors

therapists

strangers

my name and pronouns

they will look at me and assume boy

because I will be what my insides say

my light will finally shine through

and I am going to be around to see this

ugly butterfly break out of his cocoon

and greet the world with a smile

that will not be forced

I don't think of dying as leaving
more like stepping out for a cigarette
and forgetting to step back in
because I'm still out here
just beyond your blurry eyes
look at me sideways and I shine like a star
but look at me head on and I whither
under your disapproving gaze
please stop looking right through me
I'm afraid of what you may see
when you look beneath the surface
because I'm all jagged edges and ripped pants
scars with the same story
over and over again
ver the course of four years
don't look at me head on
please stop it
I'm just stepping out for a smoke
even though I don't plan on dying of cancer
and this cancer stick will stay unlit
please don't worry about me
I'll be okay
just not today
but maybe in a few years
you're looking through me
and I'm afraid of what you'll see
when I lay my weapons down
collapse into your arms
and cry out all the tears that have been
building up over all these years
I'm afraid of what's inside my head
I don't make my parents proud anymore
I killed their little girl and gave them a stubborn boy
in her place
I hate the girl I used to be
I don't know how to love myself anymore
but maybe if I bare my scars to you
you could try to help me put myself back together again
I know it's too much to ask
so I'll just step outside
you won't see me anymore
unless you look at me sideways
then I will burn like the brightest star for you
I love you

They took me to church
My mom dropped us off
The smaller one looked beautiful
I looked like I always do
Grimy and broken
I can’t say that
I worshipped like a dog
But I did consider praying
Even though all my prayers
Are merely selfish whims
Like peace on earth
And good will towards all men
I’m probably going to
Hell for calling Jesus a ******
First thing
But humor is how I deal
And my sense of humor is terrible
She looked so beautiful
In that moment
Standing under the lights
Shining out through the big glass windows of the church
That I wanted to freeze that image and shrink it down and put it in my pocket
And keep it safe and sound forever
But time rolls on
People and things wither
Crumble and die
In that moment I
Swear that the fact that I am
An atheist in church meant more to
Me than it did to the people around me
But that didn’t matter
Because she is a shining star that
Fills up my dark skies
And her beauty fills me with light
And I feel content in this moment
Watching her shine

watching the ****** suicides
it makes my wrists hurt
i see myself in cecelia’s eyes
the hurt and the pain
though i was always more of a pill popper
than a wrist slitter

watching the ****** suicides
my hands shake
mostly my right one
fingers trembling in tune to the beating
of my heart
bound to rip out of my chest

watching the ****** suicides
i feel the luke warm bathtub water
sloshing over my thighs
as i sat there
with the blade in my shaking hands
imaging the red water that remained clear

watching the ****** suicides
my head hurts
my chest tightens
i feel like crying
maybe dying
just resting for a little while

watching the ****** suicides
i thank god that i told someone
before it got any worse
the months spent cutting and overdosing
in silence
now i just regret them

watching the ****** suicides
i think of all my friends
that have hurt themselves or attempted
think of about how i am one of them
and a text message or a blog post
is a pretty ****** way to say goodbye

watching the ****** suicides
feeling like i am one of them
knowing what the signs look like
like the back of my hand
i am so glad
i have yet to become a statistic

Honey Bear came home today.
I am still in awe that somebody who was so big in my life and in my eyes can be made so small.
The box that she came home in is on her bed with a piece of bacon, a card, and her paw print.
I can’t bring myself to write happy poetry about her.
It’s still too soon.
Dear god, it’s too soon.
I need my friend, my confidant, my sister, my family, back.
Bring her back.
You give her back.
You vulture.
I know that she was sick.
And in pain.
But it’s still so hard to let someone so dear to you go.
That **** dog.
We’ve all cried as much as we did at Great Grama’s funeral.
Every day I am greeted by her empty bed.
I still expect her to come limping into my room, nudging the door open and laying down.
I have dreams where I stand at the door and call her name over and over again.
I wait for hours for her to come back.
But she never heeds my call.
Though, she never was good at listening.
And I think that maybe, if I get mom to call her name, she will come.
And I think, maybe, if I help mom search for her, we will find her, happy and healthy again.
Because moms can find anything and everything.
But what happens when she can’t find the pieces of your heart that Honey Bear took with her?

my first binder came by air mail
from China or Japan
and i thought that it would fit
after having accidentally told my mother i was transgender
and needed something to hide my *******
the look on her face broke my heart
so i backpedaled and said it was for cosplay
my heart too broke that day
because i was afraid that she wouldn’t
love her son as much as she loved her daughter

and it went sour for a while
we yelled instead of talked
i over dosed and self harmed
instead of asking for help
and then i tried to **** myself
in a rather selfish manner
my little sister was right next door
and i didn’t care
because right then
i was packed and ready to go

but who ever resides up there
wouldn’t let me enter the pearly whites
or the burned and blackened coffin doors of hell
which ever would get the biggest laugh
because i assumed that my life was the **** of a joke
that i wouldn’t be told the punch line to
rob told me it was sara’s dad
the same person that kicked him out too
and i believe in that with all of my being
because it’s better than believing in nothing at all

back to my being transgender
which is all my poetry is about
that and cutting and over dosing and the promise of ***
still to be fulfilled
and how much i hate myself
i am a broken record
but i read somewhere to write what you know
and my sadness is all that i know
i accidentally became my depression
and lost myself along the way

i am transgender
which means i was given the gender that my reproductive organs expressed
i identified as a girl for the first sixteen years of my life
then tumblr and family told me what transgender means
and i found that it applied to me
at first i was scared
i didn’t tell my family first
though i did tell my uncle first when i came out as a lesbian
i told some friends first because facing the screen was easier
than facing my family

but it does get better
and you should stick around to see that it really does
because the sun always comes out tomorrow
whether you sleep with your curtains closed or not
the sun always comes out tomorrow
annie agrees with me
and we are going to lose more
and more brother and sisters
but we can stop this
just listen to us
love us
accept us
and for the love of god
don’t ask me what is in my pants

i was an addict at twelve
but it wasn’t a needle that i shoved
up and under my fragile preteen skin
pushing the euphoria in with a single movement

it was a blade that i
pulled across my ****** flesh
splitting the threads that so skillfully
held me all together

it didn’t hurt the first time
boy oh boy did it bleed
through a *** of toilet paper and a washcloth
it was like a period that i could control

and that’s what got me hooked
the pain that i could control
when my life was going down the rabbit hole
i just wanted to feel in control again

i’ve been in therapy since before
i took the scissors to my wrist
had a suicide scare in sixth grade
though back then i didn’t know what suicide meant

i was just a messed up
kid sitting in the counselors office
abused converse scuffing the floor
i poured out my heart to her

it didn’t help the first time
the second went by in a blur
only three appointments
maybe less but he was nice and had kind eyes

i used a variety of instruments
playing the strings of my skin
back and forth with the blade
back and forth

scars layered upon more sloppy scars
my left arm and wrist and shoulder
though that came later when i thought i was being sneaky
were a battle field

it lasted for four ******* years
four long years that nearly killed me
i still wear layers because the paranoia never left
and i still don’t feel beautiful without that familiar stinging

in the car
sat next to my mother
sweating along to the country songs on the radio
my toenails scrape against the bottoms of my shoes
as i scuff the them against the worn carpeting
the car smells like very berry hibiscus
and black coffee that reminds me
of a place before they were gone

at the cemetery
it feels wrong to be alive
and i make sure not to step
directly onto the headstones
because the horror movies always warn
me of hands coming up through the dirt

but i can’t
help but to think of how nice
it would be to be held by my great grama
one last time
even if i got dirt in my eyes
it would be nice to see her again

i’m sorry that
i didn’t go near her coffin
i remember his funeral too
though i don’t know how many years ago
it happened to be
i cried the hardest
and i remember at her funeral
how my mom and sister were talking about how
proud they were that neither of them cried
like i did
and i felt small and weak and childish
but also
painfully human

i find that
it is easier to think of the cemetery
as more of a library for the dead
because most of them are as old
as the dewey decimal system
and i’m just pawing through the card catalogs
looking for a hand to hold

your parents are
under the c category
c for classen
c for caring
c for compassion
c for clarity
c for cherished memories
c for come back