It's not simple
It's rusted nails breaking skin
Lightning flashes in a hurricane
The crack of a body hitting the pavement

It's the pinch of nails in your palms
The tremble of your legs when you think they're watching
The ache in your chest when your binding is too tight
But not tight enough

It's not a stormcloud, it's a typhoon
It's not a discomfort, it's torment
Its the steel beams in your chest snapping under pressure
Your skeleton crumbling so maybe your chest will be flat then

But all those rusted nails and steel beams
Heated by the fire and fury of passion
Remold into something new

Someone who can stand a bit straighter
Speak louder
Tip their chin up
And show the world who they are
Who he is.

Dysphoria is a skyscraper crumbling to ash
But it's also scraps of wreckage
Reminded into a safe haven
A place of rest
A place of comfort

She had always been on guard with her feelings.
She never let her emotions rule her.
Yet that night…
that night was not different than any other nights.
She still felt lonely.

Yes, he was there
she felt him…
inside her
he touched her
but it was too superficial.

He touched her,
she felt him,
but that’s it.
Their bodies collided,
but never their soul.

Inside, her whole being was bleeding…
aching…
longing…
for that gentle, genuine touch
from the other
but all he gave her
were fierce and mighty
stabs of
uncertainty.

Yes, it was pleasure,
but it only lasted
so brief that when
she opened her eyes
he was gone.

She needed someone to complete her.
She thought it will be him,
but he was just another coldblooded bandit.
Stealing…
destroying…
everything he can
off of her,
leaving her wrecked
and sore.

She lay there…
her heart shouting in
pain rhyming with the
silence of the night.

She lay there…
her eyes closed,
but her soul
wide open.

Waiting….
waiting for
someone to pick her up.

Waiting…
waiting for
everything to fade into
oblivion.

you cannot help but hate your body
the gangly limbs
the stomach that sticks out entirely too far
the freckles that dot your face
you ******* hate yourself
every mirror you look at is a reminder of what a total piece of **** you are
so when you start to float, it's a relief

the feeling of not being you is something entirely new
the arms that are not your arms
legs that are not your legs
eyes that you can't see through

and better
you aren't a ******* girl anymore
this is always the worst part
you can ******* deal with everything else
you can
but not that

because you are not female
and you know this
except
except you are

the binders lying on the floor are telling you that you aren't actually
they love that word
actually
shout it in the hallways and whisper in hushed conversations that they know you can hear

actually

the sensation of being ripped out of your own skin
and then
calm
then
you aren't you
so you're happy

you can't not be happy when you look like how you actually ******* feel

the sensation of being ripped out of your own skin, then
isn't bad
because it's not your skin anymore
it's that freaks' skin
you're not a freak

right?