"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."
-Maya Angelou

My soul is a sweetie:
She’s a cute but ****,
with an infectious smile,
an enchanting personality.
She wears dark colors,
slightly goth makeup,
and thick-rimmed glasses.
She likes candles, tea,
sweaters, and cannabis,
and goes on long walks
in the woods by starlight.
She’s cool and confident,
outgoing and fun,
and as beautiful as
a moonrise reflected
off of a frozen lake.

She’s me.
But I am not her.
She’s the me inside
of the me inside of me.

She cries when my mind
grapples with the bounds
of the mental illness
that gives her life.
She screams in pain
when my mind tries
to rationalize her
and explain her away.
And she glows with joy
whenever I try
to grow closer to her.
She’s the part of me
I never asked for,
whose existence hurts
like a deep burn,
but nonetheless makes
me truly be myself.

Some kid I don't even know is my hero
because he called me "he" when he doesn't even know me
and everyone else scares me
because they're constantly mocking all us ******* trannies,
saying we shouldn't exist,
because we're liars and delusional.

I can't stand people who says they're like me
just because they don't conform,
because they're not.
Not conforming isn't the same
as letting everyone see you and call you "it" and "******" and saying they hate people like you,
and not being able to breathe because you've got too beaten up by yourself hiding something
and wanting to die but only not doing it because you can't stand for a single person to talk about it with "she" on their minds.

I used to say I hated dresses and pink and all that girly **** when I was young not because I always did but because I couldn't stand anyone calling me the girly girl,
and then I always played sports, I fought and wrestled and kicked off my shoes for soccer to show the guys I was tough,
I was one of them,
and when they said I was just like them
I skipped and cried at home from happiness.

I don't believe in any god, or heaven or hell,
but I pray with all my heart
that I could have been born as someone else.
Even though I hate to feel jealous, I usually do not,
I wish so desperately that I could be any number of guys I see.

when you're born a girl.
But don't feel like one.
When you are forced to go swimming and expose your body.
The one that causes all the pain and dysphoria.
Oh how much it ***** having boys staring at your *****.
When you want to be one of them.

why so sensitive you are,
when you see a toilet sign,
when they say here go the men
and there the women.
be all pretty or be strong.
you drink ***** or some wine...

why break down every time,
why flinch at the sound,
why feel your stomach twist inside,
and brain screaming in protest?

‘you are making it all up’ they say,
but you fight your own self every day.
you are powerless and tired –
your strength and spirit fades.

will you endure,
and see a better end?

I walk around these places
Trans-centric spaces
Yet I don't feel like I belong
I know that
I look like them
And based on my reading
I feel like them too
Though I still have this sense
That I somehow do not count
I am not quite enough
I feel without a place
Maybe because last time
I was at a trans art show
And my art lives in words
Not in images on canvas
Just another piece of me
That doesn't quite feel
Real enough or
Good enough
To be taken seriously
And I know
I know
This all boils down to
The way I treat myself
But I'm trying
I'm trying
Some things just take time

Trans
Enough?
I am
Trans,
Am I
Enough?
Others
Accept me
I've experienced
Little
Rejection
Not like
Others have
Yet
I
Still
Feel
Like I
Am Not
Trans
Enough

when i feel the burning sensations often i feel like if i burn my fingers i can make it quell
but not go away completely,
the burning covers my thighs and lower stomach and i push my fingers into it but it’s never enough, and yet too much
the burning mixes with a feeling i can’t describe that brings tears to my eyes
i try to push it down because the burning hurts and my fingers are covered in flame
but it’s never enough
and yet too much

dysphoria is a funny thing
i hold toys in place of what i miss
i push up and down trying to ignore
the pangs i feel in the chest that isn’t mine
dear god please let me finish this time
they all say hope will make the burning worse
but there isn’t much worse i can go from here
and yet it scares me all the same

i shudder once
a broken sound
it’s better than before
but not enough
and yet too much

i took your name
as my own;
i liked it,
and wanted it love it
as much as i loved you;
because if i do not have you
i have something to hold on to