dear quinn,

goodbyes are hard
but staying will be harder
just let go

it's okay

love,
atlas

I grew up with God in the wind,
and didn't fit in with Christian friends.
They told me stories and begged me to repent.
Though doubtful, my anxiety sparked at the thought of sin.

I was once on a playdate and the mother told me.
She disowned her best friend when she confessed she was a lesbian.
She told me she could only take her back if she came to her senses.
It made me feel sad and sick, with little sympathy for the protagonist.

I was once told by a good friend that no one is bisexual, of course they're just confused.
I knew who I was but I didn't say anything in rebuttal.
I just nodded my head and took the bruise.

Once after jokingly seeing my boyfriend and another male friend hold hands, my mother told me "how dare those ******* disrespect you like that."
It was a moment that shattered glass and left scars.
I managed an apology after too much effort.

My stepfather once told me that gender fluidity was a confused phase, and a fad for attention.
Walls were put up and notes were taken.
Doors remained closed and silence  prevailed.

I am complicated.
I blend in to "normal"
I feel guilty at times and don't feel honest.

I undervalue, perhaps, the benefit of looping everyone in.
Or, perhaps, I'm just keeping the peace and heeding warning signals.

I can say for certain, it's not a fad nor phase.
I've always been who I am, I just had to grow up in order to phrase it.

Say it with your chest.

Black trans lives matter.
Black trans lives matter.
Black trans lives matter.

There’s a lot of reasons
to say
No
to being in the streets.

Anxiety.
It’s a work day.
It’s dangerous.
What are you even doing there?

And you still go.
It feels more right
than being at your desk job
in a 80% white county.

So you make the drive.
You write numbers to call on your arm
tentatively,
hoping you don’t need them,
but it’s too late to turn back anyway.

Somehow this feels right.

And it’s hot.
The sweat is melting
the numbers off your arm.

And you’re hungry
because you didn’t eat lunch
and didn’t pack anything.

And your ex is here,
and you can deal with it,
but it’s still uncomfortable.

And you don’t know most people here
and there are so many white people,
and what are you doing here?

And in spite of everything
somehow this feels right.

You stand to the side.
Sometimes you can’t hear the speeches.
Sometimes you have to sit down.
Sometimes you lose track
of the friends you came with.

And there are
so many reasons not to be here.
But you’re here now
and you can’t turn back.

Say it with your chest

Black trans lives matter.
Black trans lives matter.
Black trans lives matter.

And you join the crowd to march.
You don’t know
where you’re going
but you’re going.

And as you march
at some point
it doesn’t matter
how many people are white,
because at some point
you feel it.

You don’t live here
but you feel it:
community.

And you are quiet,
recently wrote a whole article about it,
about how protests could never be your thing.
But then
you remember
what a black trans organizer said
before the march:

Say it with your chest.

Black trans lives matter.
Black trans lives matter.
Black trans lives matter.

And then
you are shouting too.
You are weaving through cars,
you are sitting down in the streets,
and cars are honking in solidarity,
and workers raise their fists
from behind closed doors,
and anxiety melts away,
because this,

this is important.

And it is hot outside,
your feet hurt,
you haven’t eaten for hours,
you’re thirsty,
and there were so many reasons
to stay home.

But you showed up.

And eventually
the march ends,
and you learn
that the police didn’t know
what to do about all of you.

And your ex thinks
you’re flushed with panic
but it’s not panic,
it’s adrenaline.

And your friend
thanks you for showing up,
and tells you
that your trans life matters.

You are not black,
you are brown,
and this is not about you,
you’ve always known this,

but for once
you feel validated,
you feel community.

And will there be victory
in your life?
You don’t know.
But your friend is waving the trans flag
out the window
and you are going to Burger King
and making fun
of white people,
of the police who couldn’t keep up,
and it’s enough.

And this was not without risk,
but this feels right,
and anyway,
if there is no risk
there is no reward.

This day will be over,
but remember
today,
and every day:

Say it with your chest.

Black trans lives matter.
Black trans lives matter.
Black trans lives matter.

even if your name
doesn't match the one on your drivers licence
or birth certificate:
be proud

even if your pronouns
aren't the ones they use at
family gatherings or birthday parties:
be proud

even if the one you love
isn't the one you're with:
be proud

even if who you are
isn't who you want to be
right now:
be proud

even if people
don't understand
and still use slurs:
be proud

even if you have to fight
to stay visible:
be proud

even if you're not okay:
be proud

When you meet a person the first instinct is to know their name,
A proper noun to represent them as a whole,
A name can define you,
And make you a person, not just a being.
So when people ask my name, why is it that I am so pained to admit it?
The name I was given at birth,
my dear loving parent had picked out so carefully from all the rest,
why must it hurt so much to admit?
Why can't I appreciate my name?
Why don't It feel like it is my name?

My name is dysphoria, you answer to me, you're weak, I can tell, so cry on your knees

"Such a pretty name" they say,
"It suits you so well" they say,
But it makes me sick to my stomach,
I just want to hurl those letters into oblivion,
A garbled mess from which I can reform who I am.
Reform my name.
And my father wonders why I wear thick jumpers in the summer,
My mother looks concerned when she sees my lack of breath,
From the construction of the 4 sports bras on my chest.
And from her lips slips that horrid name.
And it's like I can breathe even less.

My name is dysphoria, you answer to me, you're weak, I can tell, so beg in your knees

My aunt wonders why I cut my pretty hair,
My grandad thinks it's weird that I won't wear a dress,
I don't get why "God" is angry when clearly it's just them,
I thought he taught us to love each other?
Does this rule not apply to me?
"A loving daughter" yeah right;
Just you wait and see.

My name is dysphoria, you answer to me, disgusting, revolting, now spout me your plea.

My sister tries to be supportive but I can tell she doesn't get it,
My mother doesn't mention it,
My father hardly looks at me.
But they don't understand the joy I felt,
When I took that first injection.
My hormones set on fire,
My blood set a light,
And for once in my life-
My body started to feel right.

My name is dysphoria, you should answer to me, disgusting, revolting, a girl in boys clothing.

And yeah, my family might not use my new name,
But it's on my driver's license,
My passport,
My soul,
And finally I was excited to introduce myself to people.
Finally I was happy to exist,
I was happy to be me-
A boy at last.
With a real name: Rory.

Before
In a time I can't remember
There was nothing but dark

Then you arrived
A sun to light up my world
Water to keep me alive

You were sweet like honey
With the right amount of sour
To keep things interesting

I made a mistake

I told you who I am

You may be supportive, sure
But you'd never change
For someone, you claimed to love

I was tossed aside
While you ventured out
For you next conquest

How could you
Someone as broken as me
Break me even more?

Dress, makeup
Heels, leggings
Feminine

Too-big pants, no makeup
Oversized shirt, men's shoes
Masculine

Regular jeans, little makeup
Sweater, tennis shoes
No gender

Fancy shirt, tie
Skirt, heels
All gender

All these
But I'm
Still me

And that's okay