my body is simply not conventional
to the clothes I wear
there are dips and hills plastered on my figure
hanes doesn't take into account
my weight or my height
so pulling up the waistband
drills the cotton into my skin
with no room to breathe
but I've gotten comfortable

my body is not conventional
to the clothes I wear
the hunch back of Notre Dame meets
a protruding belly that widens my waist
when I wear shirts
fabric strangles my hips
displaying my grotesque body
but I've gotten comfortable

my body is not conventional
to the clothes I wear
aged binders do their best
pools of skin are dipping out the sides
my ribs ache and it's hard to ignore
when my body wails a cracking chaos
pain and overstimulation have crept into dreams
but I've gotten comfortable

my body is not conventional
to the clothes I wear
my body is not conventional
but it doesn't bring despair
my body is not conventional
and you can't begin to understand it
because it's too crippling to bear
it's staggering to peep into a mirror
seeing my being labeled unpleasant
with the unnerving urge to rip my eyes out
and splatter my blood on the glass
why don't I just break down and sit there
it's heavy to carry my weight and be hyperaware
it's easy to not care and maybe I'd take that route
but I'm not conventional
so I'm taking another way downstairs

I want to die so badly
It's an ache in my chest that wont seem to pass
It's the pinprick of nerves asleep after too long at rest
It's a lion staring me down, baring it's hungry teeth through bulletproof glass
I'll look at my reflection and think "you are supposed to be dead by now"
My reflection flares it's nostrils and curls it's lips over it's teeth
I am the lion
I am the glass
I am myself

writing poetry is a way to exist, to attempt to emulate the beauty of the me that I'm not yet but the me that's inside of my head, and it's all spontaneous, nothing planned or rehearsed because rarely does anything come from it

listening to music is a way to exist, I reside somewhere in a line I interpreted to refine an alternative image of this body that I refuse to accept

dissociation is a way to exist, cause the loudness of my own ambitions and dreams and goals, or rather delusions, can distract from my own nightmarish self image, but only for a moment

self harm is a way to exist, as I hope that the me that I imagine is stronger than I am and can tolerate far more punishment inflicted by either myself or my fellow human

******* is a way to exist, cause the lust I experience is never more prominent than when there's truly nothing left for me and I've exhausted every other method, and there is nothing to do but give in to the most worthless way to feel a sense of purpose

Emorie is a way to exist, because she's an exquisite reflection of the life that I've always wanted, and what I wish I could see instead of what I get when I look into the mirror and see dead eyes and unfamiliar flesh.

No matter how many times I'm called beautiful
or pretty, of gorgeous, or any other comment,
I will always cry when I hear the name
You try to call me adoringly...

It is dead.
I bury it here
In the words.
I write its tombstone.

Pain wracks my fragile bones.
Everything hurts me,
So please, please don't
Come close or touch me.

I can't look at my body
Because it isn't what I want.
I know it's selfish, you see,
But it's a paper without a font.

My skin is a tapestry of
Beauty and pretty and all
In the perfect girl you'd love,
But guys: absolutely appalled.

Nothing matched on me-
I'm the missing left sock,
My bones' rattle is all I'll be
Until I take the final walk.

I sit inside a body in blood that isnt my own. There are voices calling out a name, a name attached to this vessel. It's not mine.
I am conscious of my state, this sentience pains me.
I know what's out there. I know my potential, what I could be. This barrier of skin and blood prevents me. It hurts.
I'll sit in this shell of a body to be perceived by those who happen to pass by. Wading in blood that isnt my own, with skin like marble begging to be carved into, and I won't mind.
This body isnt my body, my body is inside.

How am I supposed to react
When inside my own body
I feel so trapped

I'm expected to be what I present
But that doesn't reflect me
And this person you see, I've began to resent

Her pronouns don't feel like mine
And they haven't for a while
But changing them has helped over time

Sometimes it feels okay
Others I can't take it
Because how I feel changes day to day

The girl you see who wears the skirts
Who wears makeup to be confident
Isn't a girl at all, and feels like dirt

When you call me beautiful
I don't know how to feel
It feels so unusual

My body doesn't feel like mine
It belongs to a woman
If it didn't maybe I'd feel fine

My clothes don't reflect me
Neither does my makeup
This isn't who I want to be

I'm scared I'll never look neutral
Maybe you'll always see a girl
It just feels so brutal

The person you raised
Isn't who I grew into
I'm a new person today

I've never came out
But it's because I'm still so unsure
And if I told you you'd feel doubt

You raised a girl
Not someone doesn't feel right
A child who'd grow to wear dresses and pearls

I was always your princess
Never your prince or neither
But I've never felt secure in a dress

I'll never feel feminine
Not how you perceive it
But how I feel it is relevant

The tiara never fit my head quite right
And the long hair felt wrong
I wish I could change overnight

One day you'll know
I'll explain it all to you
But until then, I'll continue to grow

Shimmering, calm at the surface.
A gentle ripple emanating outward.
The taste clear and quenching.

Clouded, disturbed within.
A single drop of lye enters.
The bitter sharp and revolting.

The delicious overrun by an acrid moment.