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Mirrors like to lie.
Reflecting a 'girl'.
An image of an old self,
a mannequin.
moon man Apr 1
I see what they see, yet they don't see what I see
when they look in my reflection, they see what I am
when I look in my reflection, I see what I want to be
when they look in my closet, they see the clothes I wear
when I look into my closet, I see the clothes I want to wear
they see my form as a shell, nothing more than protection
I see my form as a cocoon, with a more beautiful creation inside it's walls
while they see me and I see them
it is not the same in the looking glass
today is national transgender/nonbinary visibility day, so this is for those who stand under that umbrella, dedicated to max
Payne Yance Mar 30
Now you see, just hold on a minute there
I can’t- for the sake of hearing people- say I love
shooting my ears out, bleeding myself deaf.
I don’t but I am deaf.
I can’t- for the sake of heterosexuality norms- say I love
feelings boiling to the surface for girls and boys.
I don’t but I am queer.
I can’t- for the sake of masculinity- say I love
good eye for fashion, rather than football.
I don’t but I am genderless.
Did the lightbulb flash above your head,
******* therapist
Day Feb 26
Honestly, I’m really tired of this conversation
and worn down from this constant repetition

I’m just here -
Not a girl, not a boy
Tired of being treated
Like some type of toy

Please stop -
Asking me
How to make it work
I don’t know.

I don’t t ever ******* know.
You tell me I'm one thing,
But really you're just afraid that I'm something
You believe everyone is one or the other,
But whats the beauty in that?
Maybe one day I'm
The next I'm
Then the day after I'm
Don't suppress me for being
I am undefinable
Relieve me from this label,
I cannot belong in this cramped space
That you decide I fit in
I don't understand why anyone would want to be confined
To just one thing.
You tell me I'm this,
Not that.
But why can't I be both?
Or neither?
Why conform?
Why conform when I feel so free just being
Why conform?
Ghost Feb 10
I look in my reflection
And in the mist I see
A completely unknown person
To which the world calls “she.”

Her long hair a dark brown,
Eye color? Hard to tell
Her chest fully unbound
Says she’s doing well

I grasp onto my face
Staring into hers
The world has picked up pace
And all my vision blurs

But her face is not mine
To the mist I’m not confined
Remedy Jan 10
It’s easy to see what others see,
Just look into a mirror.
Except when my eyes approach the glass
And a trembling hand moves hair out of a face
That belongs to a me that isn’t there,
When I feel the clench of teeth that aren’t mine
Baring a terrified, threatened smile,
The lungs of someone else threatening collapse
Like a tower of rose coloured glasses,  
A facade so beautifully crafted that upon its creation
It was given the wrong name.

I look into that mirror and only when the eyes,
The bars of the prison my soul desperately claws at,
Meet my mind do I truly see the person who is there,
The man who grew so safe in complacency
That he refused to question what it meant
To be anything other than what
His body told him.

There’s comfort in conformity,
Especially when the character is curated in such a way
Where no one's the wiser.
A costume so extravagant that even the mind gets swept away
By the splendors of dissociation because surely,
Surely this body belongs to this character
That was so painstakingly molded
By the roles and rehearsals presented to it, surely
The discomfort it feels with these mounds of flesh that hide the lungs
Is not because they shouldn’t be there, but because
They are making it so much easier to play the part
Of the one that isn’t me.

Surely I feel guilty and complicit when I speak because I am fooling everyone,
Fooling, Deceiving, Making it so incredibly easy to see
Someone who just isn’t nor has ever been there.
Even Myself, for 22 years.
For 22 years I’ve let myself take on a role rather than actually stop and think
That maybe I am not a girl who likes dolls,
Who likes dancing and dresses and lover’s confessions
And wrestling and writing and eating and lighting
Up the entire room when I laugh, No,
Maybe that was the rough draft of a character that was meant
To be played by a man.
Maybe, just maybe, it was a boy doing these things.
And when that name was crossed out and replaced
While the critics walked out and looked down with disgrace,
The boy in a dress with his chest all in lace
Finally let out the breath he was holding
For 22 years.

The mirror still lies on occasion to others,
But to me, I look and see past this body,
Past the hair and the chest and the shortness of breath
From the noose of conformity around my neck,
And I see the man that god made me.
And while I want so badly to be seen by the masses,
How I want to shatter their rose coloured glasses
So they see the waves of purple and blue that adorn me.
How I want the people who have scorned me
To say I didn’t delve from the scriptwriter’s plan,
It just took them awhile to see I was a man.

I know it will never happen.
That even as the curtain falls, no matter the costume or lack thereof,
They will only see the girl that isn’t there.
And maybe I will take this facade to my grave but as I return
To the one who truly made me,
He will say ‘welcome home, my son.
Your performance as her, it’s finally done.’
Just the struggle of being nonbinary in a vent piece.
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