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Arden Sep 2019
There is a boy in my closet
The boy is friendly but stays hidden
When I look in the mirror there he is
I became jealous of who he is
He says he wants to come out  
I decided to ignore it
But the curiosity grew bit by bit
Until I could barely stand it
"CUT YOUR HAIR"
But when I went downstairs my unapproving mother stood there
The boy wasn’t at ease with what our plan began to be
Because in reality, the boy was really me
But all people can see is she
That part wasn’t cut out for me
I don’t understand the big deal if I'm a he
Arden Sep 2019
You call me
She, her, daughter, girl
Shhhhhh…
You speak with a blind mouth,
Look at me, see me
She isn't me
Only a fantasy that you clutch
I'm not broken, I'm free

Long hair
lipstick
lace dress
You question me every time I show you my truth
"Are you trying to hide your femininity?"
No, my femininity is simply not my definition
Spend a day in my skin, in my cage
And don't cry when the words start to pierce you like daggers.

Shhhh… stay silent, don’t worry its just a phase
Now do you see the "She" just doesn't make sense
You speak to me but your voice seems distant,
Bouncing off and echoing
Vic Sep 2019
My parents made me
Wear a skirt, and a short sleeved t-shirt.
The only reason they didn't see
The scars that covered my arm
Is because they bought make up for me 2 days ago, in which I hid the scars.
"Because you're a girl."
Right now, I ******* feel like
'Micheal in the bathroom'
Anyway, I'm gonna continue crying in closeted trans now, bye.
A "poem" every day.
Morgan Alexander Sep 2019
I sit around chewing bubble gum
Its flavor dull, and flat.
I spit it out into the greasy, stained waste bin.
It stares back at me angrily, lying next to
Some brown boxes, random yard waste,
An oily blue rag, and a raging red
Hunk of plastic, which once was a fire engine,
My misery reflected in its misshapen contours.
I’m trapped in my world
Of fake “How-do-you-dos”
And tepid conversation about the weather.
Each day is an agony and every moment, surreal.
I cry for a body that is not mine.
My soul burns with each passing lie I tell someone
When they ask who I am.

I hate love songs, happy songs, and celebrations!
They are never for me.
They are the bubble gum I scrape off my shoe
As I walk down the aisle to watch the latest horror movie.
The violence on the screen,
Only slightly assuages the rage… in my female soul,
Bound for eternity in a hairy, meaty prison.
I always feel like ****!
A female mind forever warped
By this absurd male body.
The lies I tell become my little deaths.
Little deaths are pain and envy.
Pain and envy are like bubble gum…
Endlessly mashed together and sticky.

A woman sashays past me,
An unknowing feminine tyrant
Enjoying my salvation with the
Parting of her pretty red lips,
The sway of her baby-making hips,
And her graceful, yet sleek fingertips.
She delicately sits, her soft pleasant voice
Floats back up to me. Dysphoria level: CRITICAL!
She dictates my days and nights...
Inadvertently taunting me as she giggles with her friends.
But my eye’s long drinks
Of her crisp, cool water were never
About my thirst.

-MorganLA
I truly love women.
Vic Sep 2019
Boy
When I stare at my face,
And look deep in the mirror,

It's never the love that creeps in,
Always the 'horror'

I see a girl standing there.
An average looking girl.

She's not to tall,
But also not short.

She has brown hair up to her shoulders,
With blue and indigo streaks in it.

She's wearing pants that are a little bit too big,
Because her disorders make her lose weight.

She's wearing a red and black 'lumberjack blouse'
It's a little too big, it's from the men's departement.

She has a pretty small mouth,
But her lips are pink, and kind of plumped

She has bushy eyebrows,
But not in an ugly way?

She has beautiful grey, blue, green eyes.
It depends on the day and her mood.

She has a little bit of a crooked nose,
That a tiny bit too big for her face.

She has a chubby face, not so much
But she's a little chubby over all.

She has braces on her teeth,
But that's pretty common these days.

She has a pretty normal body,
Normal figure, a little on the "fat" side.

She has an arm full of scars,
But they have always been there, so it's fine.

And all of the above,
Every day that's what I see.
But what I see in the mirror,

She's a girl.

She   is   not   me.
Dysphoria Days.
Mia Sadoch Sep 2019
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.
mike Jun 2019
her
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
mike Jun 2019
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 in the 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
someday,
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
Kaiden A Ward May 2019
The deepest depths of our lungs
have been deprived of oxygen
for so long
that we cannot remember what is like
to breathe,
deeply and unhindered by
this binder
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
and freedom
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,
one day,
we will finally be able to learn
what it is like to
breathe again.
My first attempt to capture what it is like to bind and my personal experience and thoughts on binding. Everyone's story is different.
Casey May 2019
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.
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