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Katie Mar 9
A frayed tendril of pathetic string,
Run taught above my head.
A blade of dismay, terror, fear;
Standing in perfect contrast to everything I want to be.

'Tis nought more than a fickle thing,
Not a feeling to be felt or a word to be said,
Yet it continues to hinder me here.
It's the waiting doom that awaits all goodwill I'd set free.

A twang of snapped twine,
Again and again and again and again,
It all falls down yet remains in place;
Tying up it's own phantom madness to strike deep within me.

Unpredictable, I was feeling fine,
'Till the blade deemed to split me in twain,
And once again tears stream down my face.
Drowning in a selfish torrent of fog through which I cannot see.
Filomena Feb 28
You can't erase your face.
You can't retrace or displace
the lines you dislike.
Some people try. Why?
At best it makes a mess.

Why am I upset by a little extra bone?
The external effects of my natural testosterone?
How can a bit of unwanted hair excite despair?
Why do I care?

I pointlessly worry
about silly points
like the size of my shoulders
or my knee and thumb joints.
My hairline, my brow ridge,
the shape of my nose,
my masculine pelvis,
my crooked man toes...


My eyes are fine --
My only feature I like.
My shy smile is alright
but not too wide
'cause of my overbite --
-- the size of those incisors!

Now, some would say that I'm just vain,
so self-obsessed I've gone insane.
But I would say that's how we're trained,
At least in this day and age.

Others might paint me like Dorian Gray
praying to Satan for youth to stay,
but I just wish it hadn't gone this way.

Why would you keep your looks immutable
if you were never to begin with beautiful?
Nov. 2018 - Feb. 2022
I wrote most of this poem from a pre-transition perspective.
My circumstances and perspective have changed a fair bit.
I tried to emulate the original perspective in my later additions.
Filomena Feb 27
******* hell
stuck in gel
down a well
brownstone shell

jumbled brain
tumbling train
mumbling rain
crumb of pain

ghastly face
nasty trace
silent pace
file in place

all a game
act the same
feel no shame
killing name
Late Feb. 2022
CIN Feb 24
Here's the thing,
               You are a boy, not really but you try to be,
               You are a boy, addicted to masculine words, and pretty poetry
                                                                          About two boys falling in love
You enter a room and say,
                             “Hello i am a boy, and if you tell me i'm not ill show you.”
Your fists do the talking when your throat cant,
You come home to your mother,
                                  All black eye, and busted lip,
“I’m a boy!” You cry,
                           And she shakes her head, eyes wet like
You are sent to your room,
                                           To wallow in your disgrace.
Your chest aches,
                      But you ignore it,
                                           Choosing instead to rest your weight.
Can you tell I've been binge reading Richard Siken's works
Katie Feb 22
It's all I'll ever be;
The hairs I missed and the blood I drew,
It's the truth I wish I couldn't see.
It's pain to be replaced with pain anew,
An endless cycle, a nightmare,
Living as this creature, this mutt,
Consistently choking on rancid air,
Throttled in hemp I can't cut;
This hell will never end.
Filomena Jan 29
My Body cannot Cry,
but my Soul Screams Eternally
Nov. 2018
It seems to be a common experience for pre/non-HRT trans women to feel like they *should* cry when they are upset, but are physically unable to.
Filomena Jan 27
Vocal ingenuity
A generous gratuity
I wish could be removed from me
But I would still write poetry

--Which someone else would have to read
As from the page the inkblots plead
"Give us a voice!" the letters said
Without a voice they would be dead

But no-one reads my poetry
And so its voice is left to me
To show the World, or just to try
Be truly heard before I die
Written Jan 2022.
Katie Jan 17
What can our next step be?
This valley is becoming so deep.
Sheer cliffs either side of me,
Pressing in ever further to keep
Me restricted in this place.
Does the sight of myself harm me so?
I'm the first to admit I'd do anything to erase
This body that keeps my spirits so low,
But this catch 22 I find myself in
Is a low even I do not wish to partake.
****** if I do, if I don't, I can't win,
And even still I'm worrying these feelings are fake.
I've sunk too far to hope to surface.
I'm drowning in depths of my own despair.
I tried to find my life at my own pace,
But I guess I forgot to come up for air.
Gabrielle Jan 15
it’s 2pm PST
my PTSD is eating me
ring finger on control key
my poor and lonely body
MuseumofSoph Jan 10
My mirror looks back at me.

Sometimes I ignore it
Other times I stare

Green eyes are all I see.

I tap the glass
Only to fall in
For eternity

Slipping through





I tap the glass again
There’s someone else
Not me?

‘To be or not to be’

The question unanswered

Eventually my stare falters
Thrown off by fears

My face remains a mystery

My body warping as
A light flickers
I tap once more
The glass

A million knives in skin that doesn’t feel like mine

Smiling through the pain
It’s a flaw in my design

For when I’m bleeding
I forget the warped image in the mirror

Instead I feel free
I disappear
So happily.
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