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Somebody that I used to know
I look in the mirror and see Somebody,
Somebody that I used to know.
they stare at me
her hair parted and flowing to her shoulders
her skin not yet scared by the world.
but she is crying
begging to be free earning to be her
Alexander Feb 28
Holly and she
That's not me
Cowgirl and princess
I don't wear a dress

Alex and he
That's more of my bee
Prince and King
Now that's my dream
I'm a guy
Eden Quinn Feb 25
I can´t breathe.
Feel a pressure
so strong
right beneath my chest.

I can´t breathe.
Three sport bras,
three elastics,
right on top of each other.

My back arches,
I can´t breathe.
I´m suffocating
but I would always
add another layer.

Arden Feb 24
my body is a house
someone else lives there

my body is a house
but it's not mine
i'm just visiting
Adler Feb 22
I feel like Pinocchio
made of wood,  held up by strings,
hoping to be a real boy
but never reaching my goal.
Wishing for my own fairy godmother.
To be saved from the whale inside of me.
This darkness in my soul
Devouring every good thought.
And every speck of light.
I have water filling up my lungs now.
No land in sight
I am driftwood,
Floating in the sea
I strain to see past the darkness
Still wishing my impossible wish
Hoping to be a real boy.
I'm ftm, and I'm having a bad dysphoria day. I feel like I'll never be who I want, and Pinocchio seemed the the best metaphor.
Lucas Ennis Feb 18
My skin doesn't feel right
it doesn't feel right to breathe.
It doesn't feel right to wear a dress.
It doesn't feel right what in the mirror, I see.
This body doesn't belong to me.
These lips are not mine.
The luscious hair I cut off, still not mine.
My grandmother calls me two-spirit.
I call myself an error.
Because you see,
I am a boy.
Stuck in a girl's body.
Lucas Ennis Feb 18
We transgenders are not *****,
nor *******.
We transgenders are not tools,
nor autistic or *******.
It is not funny to spit at us.
Or stick notes on our back.
It is not funny to misgender us,
or harass and assault.
It is like we are a fish out of water.
Watching everyone swim.
As we suffocate and die.
See, we transgenders are just like you.
And you see,
We all speak it.
The truth.
Just a lil poem~
Eli Feb 17
Under my skin are blood and veins and bones

That is what is under skin but what people don’t know is that i hide under this skin you gave me  

under labels that we placed  upon this face and clothes i wear you seem uncomfortable with me

so i try to ware the thing that you seem to care for but all i get back is how and were and who is

this person i try to be for you  it seems worthless sometimes but it makes you happy and i dont

know what would happen if i told the truth so i hide under this skin that is not mine but you seem

To care for it and love it so i were this skin suit for you so maybe you'll care  for me they way i

Care for you
When you reduced me to my *******.
When you told me you did not see me as a man.
Understand that touched me deep inside, where the valve of my heart pumps blood throughout my body.
Understand you dismissed the man I have come to be, to grow into through experiences, hardships, self awareness, time.
Understand that hurt me deep inside.
Alexander Low Feb 12
Grab your supplies,
two needles, six alcohol pads and
the Wonder Woman bandaids you bought
to feel brave.
Remind yourself to buy a box for mom
next time you supermarket shop.

Curse under your breath,
its left thigh week and
you know the left thigh really hates T
Message your group chat,
Ask them to pump you up
so you can ignore needle induced palpitations—
are my ribs caging my heart or protecting it?
Refocus yourself; now is not the time
for existential thoughts

Fill the syringe with the eighteen gauge,
and then drop that sucker into
the ancient bottle of vanilla coke
filled with used needles.
Change to the twenty-five gauge,
refresh your music page.
Is it a Queen or All Time Low shot day?

Wipe your leg down,
not once, not thrice,
but five times—
As you stare between the needle,
your thigh, your needle, and again
the thigh.
Count to three,
and in it goes,
not so bad—it never is.

Repeat every Sunday.
A piece from my creative writing class
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