Baby girl,

The first time I feel your tiny body in my hand, I realize my heart has been torn out of my chest. It’s been given arms and legs and a small, beautiful face, and now I have to watch it run around outside of me and guide it so I don’t lose it.

I know I will protect you because you are the Holy Grail men spend their entire lives searching for.

You are everything. No one will love you more than I do. Nothing will come between us.

You will grow up in an unkind world, a world that shouts and spews oceans of hatred. They will tell you that you’re worth less than the boys you’ll want to date.

But you will grow strong and proud, fearless of those oppressive ideals because you know better.

And when you come to me and tell me you love girls, too, with the burning passion of a million fire ants, I won’t let you see how much this worries me.

Because as hard as life was for you as a girl, my baby, it will be even more difficult when people spill oil and acid into the bay where you grew up. And all of the positivity you learned will sink under their screams of “****” and “******” and “*****”.

I will be here, though, to love you and show you that kindness is the sword in the stone that you need to rule your kingdom. You will be the mightiest queen we’ve ever seen because you know how hard life is, and you’ll teach your children and their children the respect and passion they need to make this stagnant bog flow.

But

But when you tell me that you are not my daughter at all,
that you’ll never be my baby girl,
because I taught you to find Excalibur,
and you realized you were King Arthur,
what am I supposed to do?
Am I supposed to love and support you unconditionally because you are still my child?
Everything I know says that this is wrong, every cell in my body says you are my daughter and changing your life like this is wrong and it will be so hard for you to be this boy you want to become.

How can I let you blossom into your own person when you’re not safe stepping beyond the persona I made for you?

I'm sorry you never got to be a mother,
kids running around you being a bother.
I’m sorry you never got to grow up and get married,
to a man who would cherish you till you were buried.
I’m sorry you lost all your friends,
Maybe someday they will make amends.
I’m sorry you lived hating your body,
mind going crazy, and eyes red and ******.
I’m sorry for all the things you could have been,
cut short by me at just thirteen.

But I’m not sorry for living,
I had to get free screaming and kicking.
I’m not sorry for letting your soul go,
like a little kid with his dead goldfish in the toilet flow.
I’m not sorry for ripping the facade of you off,
I’m glad our personalities aren’t too far-off.
I’m not sorry for being true to myself,
to that miserable girl, a sweet farewell.
Though no one knows you truly died,
the grief of you lies within me classified.

forty-eight hours is a long time to wear a binder,
and my ribs are screaming for mercy,
for a break from the compression and lack of mobility.
but it's not that easy.

sometimes i'd rather face the pain,
than face the fact that i am female.
these weights on my chest,
drag me to the ground.
i break down.

i feel locked in my body,
and all i want to do is break free.
nobody should feel the need to shower in the dark,
because the reality of their body is too much for them.
it shouldn't be this way

and i know i shouldn't compare myself to people,
but i cannot stop thinking,
'what if i were cis'.
i think of how much easier everything would be.
i wouldn't have to worry over how long i've been wearing my binder,
or if i pass,

i wouldn't have to worry about turning eighteen,
knowing i will be homeless.
but instead, my mother would celebrate her baby,
becoming a "legal adult."

forty-eight hours wouldn't be a worrying statement,
just another frame of time,
it wouldn't reflect on my self-care routines,
or lack thereof

it'd just be forty-eight hours.

she no longer wakes up in the morning
to look in the mirror and try to
convince herself and the world
that she's still a girl

they stopped waking up in the morning and looking in the mirror trying to convince . .
no prove that they're identity
isn't up for debate

he started waking up in the morning
to look at himself in the mirror to try to convince . .
no prove . .
no reassure himself that he is
exactly who he says

i wake up every morning and
I go to the mirror and try to convince . .
no prove . .
no reassure . .
no state that I am
a man and nobody can say otherwise

out of everyone
it could've been anyone
but i was chosen for this task that no one wants.
as i walk to the door
i wonder why
as i turn the ****
i wonder why
as the dreaded creak means my entrance is now
i wonder
why.

dragged in here
i float
as i hear people scream
defending their side
i just can't decide
but maybe they aren't screaming
i think that might be me
because of the pain it brings
when they pull me in their opposite directions..
until i fall apart
but i was never really together.

raw in pieces
they keep giving me evidence
to prove that they are right
right about me

i guess i'm the guest
that doesn't want to be here
but they sure feel like unwanted guests
inside my head.

"she's a girl"
"he's a boy"
"because of this"
"because of that"
this can't be true
that can't be true

i'm just an observer
in this court room
but then why am i in the center?

i'm was picked at random,
the chosen one
and i really wish i wasn't.

i'm sorry
that i don't fit
your definition of male.

i'm sorry
i don't have testosterone
running rampant in my veins
i'm sorry
i don't have a bulge
like the mound on a hill
i'm sorry
i don't have a flat chest
acceptable enough to expose in the summer

i'm sorry
you can't begin to understand my heart
before judging my body.
i'm sorry
you were raised to define a man
by what's in his pants.
i'm sorry
you would rather spend your life
invalidating me
and so many others
than open the doors
that beg for a chance

but i
am just as much of a man
as the next guy.

Help me
by Ashton Ard



Help me,
is something I wish I could say,
Just waiting until the day I can finally be freed from this prison I built around me.
Everyday gets harder to breathe,
I tear at my skin
ripping off the weights holding me back,
making me hold my breath.
It's too late for me to be better,
I've been bottled up for way too long.
I wish I could be strong,
like you all want me to be,
choking back my tears, I wash away my fears,
hoping to leave no trace of who I was.
Who was that girl,
who everyone thought was a lesbian?
I don't know,
because that was never me.
I forced myself into a box,
girls wear pink,
boys wear blue,
Help me,
is something I wish I could say,
just waiting until the day I can finally be freed from the prison I built around me.
Boys play sports,
girls play dolls,
No!
I scream,
This world doesn't see the many colors of who you can really be.
I rip at my chest,
I rip at my hair,
why can't I just be happy?
it's the worlds fault for pushing us back.
We're people too,
We love just like you,
Help me,
I whisper underneath my breath.
The prison walls around me fall down,
I stand in the middle of a field,
A single rainbow stands before me.
Finally,
I'm accepted,
I'm loved,
I'm happy.
Thank you.