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Anioł Jun 3
When I was a child
I went to church every Sunday

Down the road
And across the creek
Around Magnolia Street
And past the neighbor’s Confederate flag

I wore a white dress with blue hydrangeas
And shiny black Mary Janes
Sometimes a pink bow

My mother would hush me
Any time I would complain of itchiness
I would scratch until my skin matched my pink bow

The girls at church wouldn’t play with me
Because my white dress with blue hydrangeas
Didn’t fit right

My father would chide me for not making friends
That he didn’t raise an anti-social freak
With a dress that didn’t fit right

We would go home after service
Past the neighbor’s Confederate flag
And around Magnolia Street
Across the creek
And down the road

I would find myself in my little pink room
Kicking off my Mary Janes
And my little pink bow
And tearing of that godforsaken
White dress with blue hydrangeas

Pajamas are much more comfortable anyway

Dinner is always a burden
We’d join hands in Grace
Uttering the words of the Lord
“Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts…”

I’d play with my peas
My parents their wine
Not a word was spoken between us
And maybe it was better that way

Bedtime is the only time I can breathe
I’m back in my little pink room
At the edge of my little pink bed
On my knees and my hands in prayer

I would pray and pray
Beg and beg
For God to make things a little easier
To make me who I really am

And maybe instead of my Mary Janes
I’d be wearing Oxfords
Instead of looking like Eve
I’d be a little bit more like Adam

My throat was raw from crying and screaming
To a God who wasn’t there
A God who insisted that I wear
The white dress with blue hydrangeas

I’m a little bit older now
But I still find myself stuck
In the white dress with the blue hydrangeas
Shiny black Mary Janes
And a stupid pink bow

Down the road
And across the creek
Around Magnolia Street
And past the neighbor’s Confederate flag

I no longer complain of itchiness
There’s no point in it anymore

I sit on the bench in the church’s front yard
Observing the other girls from afar
Their dresses neat and ironed
I can only dream of mine being like theirs

I can get through another psalm or two
If I ignore the itchiness enough

My church clothes are back in a pile
Beside my pink little bed
In my little pink room

I stand in front of the mirror this time
As pure and disrobed as the day I was born

Everything is misshapen and melting
I can only stare back at the disoriented reflection
Before me

I live inside a body that isn’t mine
And it is disgusting

Before I know it, tears are falling like candle wax
Hot and sticky on my face
I try to wipe them away
But nothing can extinguish
The flame inside of me

I’m screaming and crying
Just like I did when I was little

But this time it was for me
Not for Him
Not for my parents
But for my own shattered image
And the soul within it

My nails claw at my flesh
Trying to rid this shell I call my body
But what is it of any use
When the thing that’s killing me
Is right there next to me?

It is no longer my flesh
It is the cage it is condemned to

Amidst the tears I can make out my hands
Tearing and ripping away streams of white and blue
And for a moment, in the eye of the tornado
There is peace

Sobbing becomes shaky, shallow breaths

I sit at the edge of my little pink bed
In my little pink room
In the shredded scraps
Of the white dress
With blue hydrangeas
happy pride
Håkon May 21
my mind is a boy and
my body is a girl
i forget-
I forget.
then I see myself-
hips and waist and chest
and I'm surprised
"I didn't think I looked like this."
I forgot.
I'm a pretty boy.
Hair spiked, khol under my eyes
but i'm
a pretty girl too.
dress clings to my curves
and shows off the parts of me that
boys want to see.
I want to be a pretty boy.
i'm already a pretty girl. shouldn't that be easier?
Ellie May 12
When I die
No one will mourn
There will be a funeral
Many will attend
mourning someone
That died when I was 10
The gravestone will be mistaken
About who I am
The people will weep
And mourn for long
But not for me
For they have it wrong
They will mourn the girl in the casket
A shell of who I once was
No one will mourn me
That is no lie
When I die they will mourn the shell
of a girl i once was
But the little boy inside
who’s always wanted to come out
No one will mourn him
Ace will be forgotten
He will be erased.
Meant as slam poetry
Max Gisel May 10
Max
I am a nameless creature so fluid,
Never the same from day to day.
I pinned myself down too soon,
On a whim I named myself.
It was the wrong time for it,
I was not ready and didn't think.
Now I am 17,
No longer the scared 13 year old I was.
The name I chose was wrong.
My parents detested it too much,
And it just wasn't mine.
I know no name shall feel like mine,
Not more than a few months,
But that's okay with me.
I will pin myself down again,
My name is now Max.
It may stick,
It may not.
I picked the name Jack when I was maybe 13 or so while in a mental hospital. It was ok, but my parents didn't like it since it was my great grandpa's or something. They didn't want me to "ruin" what they thought of when his name was said. I know I shouldn't let them dictate my life so much, but Max is cooler I guess. Anything to avoid my birth name.
He wants to be your boy
Soft and innocent
And rough, but coy
Though, he knows he'll never be intimate

You want to be a boy
A defined jaw
Ecstatic and full of joy
The most handsome boy you ever saw

I am a boy
I ruffle my hair when I talk
Standing confident in corduroy
But the definition is lost in the fog
This is kinda about a lot of things, but yk
Elaine C Apr 30
i ache
my heart begins to break
heavy with the weight
of my decision

a beautiful flower
a memento of me
memento mori
we know we will die
but life is so much brighter
without this fact

i refuse to be another nothing
just another person in the ground
flowers will bloom from my resting place
a garden just for me

they may try to destroy us
eradicate, eliminate, disconnect us
but even when we are nothing
our solidarity is our everything
trans rights
i am stuck inside this body. and it feels all wrong. tears sting my eyes every time i look in the mirror. the face in the reflection isn’t showing my authentic self. but god, a whole lifetime of burying myself in the dirt and i can’t seem to stop choking on it.

the roots have tangled around my body, holding me lifeless in limbo. it’s my fault for letting it condition me into believing i am not meant for anything other than soil. i must have the strength to break free, i can see the light glowing. but i am too scared to touch it after rotting in the darkness for a lifetime.

but god i just want to break free, to be rid of the worms eating away at me. i want to feel the sun on my skin. i want to know myself when i am not covered in dirt. it’s just so hard to dig myself out of it when i am the one that dug it deeper than it had ever been before. i am tired. my muscles ache.

will i ever be able to look in the mirror and see a man staring back at me? the musculature, peace in my eyes, and their perceptions correct? dirt under my fingernails proving the fight it took to break free?

i hate what i see because it is not correct. what went wrong? why was i born in the wrong body? why is this war raging inside me? why can’t i just accept it? why do i feel like sometimes i would rather just roll over in the dirt and rot?

i know there is still time but it’s not moving fast enough. i am drowning inside this body. if i could just turn adam’s rib into my own. but i fall victim to the idea i’ll always just be made from a man’s rib without ever having the body it came from. a rib is not enough. i need to be the whole creation.
lone-pine-poetry
Renn Apr 19
trapped in body i don’t own
mourning what i could’ve been
by each day i feel more and more alone
this world has never seen anything like me
i see the world a little differently
searching my pockets for a dime
it has became a routine
i just wanna live peacefully
but that’s hard when you’re not sitting in a limousine
but instead you’re sitting in a body thats not your own.
i tried to fix myself
but now i’m all torn
my skin is harsh, brittle
but still i might be getting there
little by little
something’s telling me to lean towards substances
if its broken it has to be destroyed,
its me who’s broken
even though i’ve sewn my cut up skin
the scars just won’t disappear
CS Modei Apr 1
“Is that a girl?”
“I must be mistaken”
“His voice is what gives him away.”
“I can see that his stubble is just growing in”
“And his shoulders are broad”
“Keep that **** pervert away.”
Sidenote: I am a black trans girl, things are tough nowadays especially with my identity. Love ya'll!
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