There's a knot in the base of my throat.
It plants itself and grows roots inside my lungs.
A thought escapes and the roots ****** against my chest and I'm struggling to breath.
My eyes blurred the world leaving me with distorted images that mix with bleeding colors.
I sit there frozen.
What is this body that leaves me numb?
I despise the thought of being another broken.
Why can't I make my thoughts look prettier?
I couldn't give it what it needed.
I searched for it in the exchanges of whispers as I laid my body down for the boys who wanted their turn.
I searched for it in the moon that illuminates my hair.
It was the only thing I could count on when I looked up.
I dreamt that it would take me in the purple clouds if I could just swing high enough.
Floating like a feather but my heart full and heavy from the moonlight.
But I haven't swung in so long and these roots keep growing.
Weighing my chest down more and i'm scared i'll never get to fly.

I've tailored so many suits,
Switching out mismatched buttons for shining brass,
And restoring fabric worn thin over years of well-loved use.

But I cannot tailor this traitorous skin to fit me right.
In some placed it's too lose,
In others too tight…
I cannot switch out the pieces of me I'd rather live without
For new pieces shining with pride.
There is no way to restore a body to what it should have been,
Or even to the simple majesty of what it once was.

Young and ignorant of its uneven seams.

I've hemmed ladies' skirts to the perfect lengths
So they no longer need to worry about tripping over the excess.
Hemmed them to show just the right amount of ankle
Or perhaps none at all..

But I cannot hem myself..

This excess emotion staining my voice denoted me as "she."
And I trip over my own voice that no longer fits in my mouth..
While gorgeous girls in gowns show off thin strips of themselves,
I am left trying to hide every piece of my skin.

This is why I have risked sunstroke in the dead of summer
Wearing a hoodie and jeans to keep me safe.
This is why swimming pools are often synonymous with nightmare.

I no longer know how to wear this body with pride.

So when they ask me when I knew I wasn't a girl…
I have to restrain my urge to laugh and cry all at once.
Because when do we know that something is not as perfect as we once thought..
Only once it has been shown to us and we've been told to fix it.

I wish I could go back to being ignorant of my uneven seams.
These uneven seams that I cannot rip out unless I want to bleed out.
These uneven seams that I will never be able to fix to perfection.

But maybe…
Slowly,
Ever so slowly,
We might be able to stretch the seams of this world.
So that no child has to learn to hate or fear
Their jagged edges
Their unhemmable spaces…

…
…
…
…

But I cannot be one of those children..
So I will use chemicals to hem my voice..
Readjust my buttons…
Stretch my seams…
I will find a seamster more experienced then I
To rip out these traitorous strings
And rearrange the fabric to a more seemly drape.

I will use new fabric to cover up the patterns I am no longer proud of…
The patterns that cloud my days…
I will mend my ways
Learning to live in a patchwork maze
Until my spirit can return to where it truly belongs
In a beautiful blaze.
- EPL 11/6/2017

Depression can be found coiled tightly around my heart
Tugging on the strings to evoke painful memories.
Things that could have been,
Of dreams that can never be real.

Depression can be found in the mirror,
mocking my body for how it’s all wrong,
fat in places, there shouldn’t be.
Roundness where there should be angles.

Depression can be found in nature
where the beauty or lack thereof,
reminds me of how it isn't 'home'.
The stars don’t shine here.

It is always overcast.

While I likely have no rhythm
and tend to trip over my feet
that would hold back a dance.

While I have debilitating anxiety
that highlights others’ stares
I may still give it a chance.

No, see, the reason I won’t dance
has way more to do with my body
and the fact that I’m trans.

As I move through the world
I feel the weight of my identity
in both physical and mental distress.

Of course everyone has baggage
that doesn’t stop them from jiving
but not everyone has to carry it on their chest.

Dancing requires movement of my entire frame
but the person I see in my head
isn’t the one that light reflects.

How can I move without highlighting
the feminine figure my clothes conceal?

How can I jive
while hiding how my chest wiggles?

Can they tell?
Girl?
Guy?
What do they see?

The questions anchor my body to the ground
So I cannot move.
I cannot dance.

I'm either too much,
Or not enough,
It's never in-between,
And when you,
Look at me,
I don't know,
What you see.

My masque has been on so long
It is starting to fuse to my skin.
Worn, paint fading,
there are cracks in it.

For every ounce of joy
each chip of plaster brings,
with it too a pound of pain
each time it gets replaced.

I found happiness in another,
hopefully forever,
though they've only seen my masque.

I found my ride-or-die-for love,
and they theirs,
though they've only seen my masque.

I would give my soul to break it off.
To take the stitching out,
Yet can not bring myself to,
for fear has chained me
to my tear stained masque.

Darkened days and wet cheeks are all that I can see from rays of sun
upon my shadows
were my masque betrayed.

So on my face it stays, but nothing outside will change, 
they've only ever seen my masque.