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?

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
                                                                                            Rain,
You are sent to your room,
                                           To wallow in your disgrace.
Your chest aches,
                      But you ignore it,
                                           Choosing instead to rest your weight.

My Body cannot Cry,
but my Soul Screams Eternally

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

it’s 2pm PST
my PTSD is eating me
ring finger on control key
my poor and lonely body

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

R

         e
  
              A
                  
                   L
                      
                      i

                      T

                    y

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
shatters.

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.