my body is a topic that trails the mouths of a family at dinner
it is the trail of saliva that leaves shortly after breaking a heated kiss
always leaving a bitter taste

but when did you taste me?
when did I crawl into your mouth full of cavities?

existing as I am cements chains in people's root canals
a topic for discussion
my life to debate
trans people being the forefront
it is so inconvenient and sinful
and yet its the flavor on their seething lips

kissing one another trailing more saliva
knowingly trading hate with ones mind and lips
integrating more citizens and normalizing their behavior

transphobia is the topic for discussion

pieces of my puzzle are aligning
trauma and enlightenment go well together
it seems as though once you've hit rock bottom
the very top feels like heaven

a walking contradiction
how do you go from wanting to die
to living your life with authenticity

pieces fitting in shapes never seen before
pieces shifting sizes finishing the next assignment

a life on hold
holds very little to me

finishing my next task is today
but what is for tomorrow?
craving more isn't selfish
it's fulfilling
questions make me contemplative
unable to sleep at night
thoughts running for more
the adrenaline keeping me alive

pieces of my puzzle can break apart
pieces deceive me and don't actually fit
it is a lesson to look more closely

a piece has appeared
it's unclear where it goes
where it starts
where it ends
it will belong in due time

i thought that discovering who i was
would come as a relief.
i thought that (as foolish as it was) i would live
in a world of bright lights and love,
acceptance and home.
but no.
it came in the form of a trial of the heart, held by the conscience.
it came in the form of hatred and fear,
towards myself and others.
it came with a world of danger,
a world pitted against my being.
it came with guilt,
convulsing inside me, giving me bad posture.
it came in the blood running down my
arms, my legs
it came with pain.
it was Pandora's box: The Sequel
and in the place of hope was joy.
but I can't allow myself to feel that yet.

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.

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.

In my hands I hold a pen, not a needle, but a pen.
Oh how I wish it were the needle.
Both hold the expression to that which I hold dearly.
For it's not just a pen or a needle that I hold;
It is me!