My body is a temple
To which I’ve lost the key.
Everyone thinks its outside is wonderful
But I, inside, see how vile it is.
It’s easy to judge beauty
When you’re beholding, and not being.
I feel trapped inside a giant of stone
Unwavering and unbearable.
I want to be vulnerable.
To feel pain, joy, and sorrow.
So why, why?
Why must I remain in this stoic prison?
I've lost sight of what I am. But I know what I am not.
all of my nightmares are becoming half-realities
and i am the only person chasing them
i'm waiting on too many half-answers
on things i can only half-see
i feel only half-me
a collection of poems i am only just now making public
my eyes adjusted to the dark last night
of the light that fades in, flickering
in the bathroom where i have spent my worst times
i saw disappointment int he mirror again
maybe someday i will learn moderation
and stop desperately trying to reach
the bottoms of cups and plates
maybe i will stop wanting to forget
maybe i will stop having to trace outlines
in the mirror of what i want to see
changing the shape of my jaw
parting my hair differently
part of a collection of poems that i am only just now making public
i have been sober for two years and four months
The deepest depths of our lungs
have been deprived of oxygen
for so long
that we cannot remember what is like
deeply and unhindered by
as the constriction threatens to
collapse the cavity of our chest.
Willingly, we trade our breath
for the exquisite, piercing pain
that we quickly come to associate with
peace of mind
because it means the reflection of our silhouette
finally matches the physique our
dysphoria has been telling us
we should have had
our whole lives.
In time, this addiction festers and
we bind longer and more often as
our bodies grow weaker and
our minds more chaotic until,
despite the destruction,
we cannot bear to take them off
and face the truth
written in our curves.
The pain is at one with us now.
We endure, if only to be able to
run our hands longingly down
our flattened chests
as we wait, hoping that,
we will finally be able to learn
what it is like to
My first attempt to capture what it is like to bind and my personal experience and thoughts on binding. Everyone's story is different.
If I could be He,
I'd grin ear to ear.
I'd laugh with a new voice,
and sing with boisterous cheer.
If I could be He,
I'd dance the night away.
I'd twirl around a girl,
and ask her if she'd stay.
If I could be He,
I'd no longer have to bind.
I'd lay shirtless on the beach,
and leave bottled messages to find.
If I could be He,
which I might never be,
I'd be eternally happy.
And I'd finally be me.
This is a more simplistic way of writing that I don't really do that much but it's fun. I'm afraid that I'll be stuck as "she" my whole life and honestly, that's a terrifying thought. But I know that one day I'll finally be myself. One day. I'm holding out for that.
a house is not a home
my home is with those who love me,
and you clearly don't
i am leaving;
i will miss you,
but not enough to come back.
you are nothing to me anymore,
as i am done with your lies
i'm planning on leaving home soon so that's a mess
When the fog stops rolling over the sea,
I find my self in between -
A banquet held in my honor and
My head over a guillotine.
Walking between unease to please
and serenity just for my peace.
Your words mean too much to me.
As if they hold a piece of my being;
I, a rose stuck in a glass house,
wilting away from uncertainty;
You, a ravine flowing through my glass dome, steadily.
It seems to be, you hold the power to revive or torpefy 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
The day I was born I was wrapped in a light pink prison
My mother kept me smothered in this shade as I grew up
A life of pigtails and dresses
Of baby dolls and princesses
But I knew it wasn't me.
As I grew up the makeup that stained my face
Burnt like acid
The dresses buried themselves under my skin
Until I wanted to peel myself out of it
Like a tormented butterfly.
The dolls' faces turned into demented demons
The princesses' turned into witches that haunted my nightmares.
The lumps on my chest that grew
Made me want to take a straight razor to them
Whenever I looked down in the shower
My tears would mix with the scalding hot water from the faucet
I wanted to throw up every time I saw my round face in the mirror.
I thought something was wrong with me
But I'm transgender
I've learned there's nothing wrong with that
A floral mat
Separates me from
The tile floor
I feel anxious despite the peace
The instructor speaks
My heart stops
Because I know
The chest binder can’t hold
Through another downward-facing dog
you shouldn’t really wear a binder when doing yoga but i would rather not exercise that do it without a binder