A man drifts near in a cloak.
All black, ghastly looking.
Move closer to the man.

Who is he? Who is he? Who is he?

Reach up to his hood.
Pull down.
Nothing but a pitch black void resides where his head should be.

Who is he? Who is he? Who is he?

Reach into the void.
Swarms of fear, sadness, and anger engulfs the mind.
Screams, matched with whispers flood the ears.
The internal voice drowns, and dies in the midst of the noise.
Pull the hand out.
Cold, grey, silence strikes.
Unnerving silence in the absence of the chaos.
The void drifts away.

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?

These scars lay on my skin
Delicately placed by surgical blades
Carefully crafted into my skin
They are art
They are a part of me
As always
I love these residual lacerations
This brail across my body
Telling my story for me
To those primed to receive it
The soft pink tissue raises slightly on my right
Agitated and stretched
Red from my inability to afford
Additional healing time away from work
Imperfect
Uneven
Visible
Beautiful
I love these pieces of myself
I love watching their journey
Through recovery and lifting
Feeling the changes tingle across my skin
As my body begins to trust me again

The smell of dirt envelopes me as i run down the street and turn the corner.
Sliding down the wet pavement i feel my bare feet rub raw.
i can taste blood from biting the insides of my cheeks, maybe even my tongue.
i finally escaped after so long.
In the distance i hear a dead girls name being called.
They dont really care i tell myself.
If they did they would be calling a different name.
Mine.
Its only a matter of time once the cops come, searching for a girl they will never find.
A girl who doesn’t exist.

Once upon a time there was a little boy.
He lived inside of a girls body, hiding under layers of soft, silky skin.
Under an itchy dress with sparkling gold thread that chafed his chest as he moved, leaving rashes across his sensitive shoulders.
Despite being pressed into the mold of a young girl, he managed to survive.
His long hair tumbling down his shoulders, in sheets of brown that shined with honey in the sun.
His eyelashes were long. His eyes were dewey.
Freckles sprinkled across his cheeks and small freckles on his arm.
His mother called them angel kisses.
That boy was me.
In first grade he got his hair cut short. His parents warned him that people might think he was a boy. That was okay.
It stayed that way until 4th grade. His hair was in a short bob, shaved on the side. His neighbors called him a ****. One of them bullied him so he poured the kids sprite down his face.
The bully stomped on the boys toe and he bled. That was okay.
In 6th grade, he told his best friend a secret. He wasn’t a girl.
His best friend called him handsome.
She was the perfect friend.

Now the girl doesn’t exist. Her parents pretend she does. She has been gone for a long time.
She is dead. Her parents know that she is gone, but they think if they pretend enough, that she will come back, that if i am denied love and support i will eventually waste away into oblivion, and she will come back.
i’m still running, but now i yell out too.
i am here.
i am real.
I am Ronan

Hushed singing surrounds me
Rhythmic waves of sunsets and campfires in the form of notes
A small blue blanket is wrapped around my tiny, fragile body
Watching as the whiskey scented breath, escapes my father
While he rocks me, singing,
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word
Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird
And if that mockingbird won’t sing,
Papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring”
A deep smile rests on his gentle face
Proud of the child in his arms
I close my eyes, as I drift to sleep
Secure, and protected in the warm colors of honey and citrus fruit

When I wake
14 years later
My father sings a different song,
His breath sober, and clean after years of addiction
but his words are sharp, and jagged
Red fires, and black holes now make up the notes
He sings to me while I defend,
“It’s criminal,
There ought to be a law,
Criminal”
He twists the lyrics to fit his meaning
He fights to fit what he’s feeling
My identity left him screaming at me to leave
I close my eyes,
Afraid, and broken in a pit of flames and dark ideas

When I wake,
My voice is hoarse, and gray
My father started drinking again after 10 years of sobriety
All because of my identity
I sing softly to myself,
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word
Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird
And if that mockingbird won’t sing
Papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring”
I wrap a blanket of cold air and tears around my body
Swirls of broken mirrors and empty bottles surround my head
As the memories of when my father used to drink come to mind
The reality hits
the past has become the present
And I close my eyes once again

Strip me bare of my insecurities
Lay a breath of cold air upon the chest I hide from all
Stripped of my shield
I sit vulnerable and scared
The galaxies and black holes,
That makes up my mind,
Widen with each word

Hopeful feelings lay in spots on my stomach and arms
Spots that have healed
But not left me
Dreams of acceptance and confidence
Have since become the shattered pieces of my bathroom mirror
The same mirror that makes me remember
All the ways my identity is fractured

Like the black holes in my eyes
There is a mystery to me
I believe that I am bad
I believe that who I am is disastrous to those around me
Yet what is an identity without such beliefs
Perhaps a good one

Colorful feelings, followed by dark and grey
That’s what you see when you strip everything away
Bones cracking from the pressure of being so conflicted
Signs of ripping as the heart tries to follow what it desires
The head, bleeding, as the pain of resisting grows

Cannot be me,
Give me back my insecurities
Give me back the bindings
Give me back my shield
Give me back my dark feelings and let me bleed
I can hold up fine
It is only my identity I am hiding
But we all know this is just a lie

dear quinn,

it's okay
to tell people

how to make
you feel
okay.

they'll call you
by the right name
and the right pronouns.

and if they don't,
they will have lost
a part
of what it is
to be
human.

and that isn't
your fault.

love,
quinn

Colors are just colors
What's the point
of hiding the rainbow
in a world full of grey?

my old name is dead
but i'm afraid to bury it