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A Simillacrum Jul 2018
Above the cushion springs
Above the bed sheet floor
They: Bird Lizard, Thing
Talon clasped around my neck
Below the salted rain, I
Bellow and ask for more

Trap these tremulous wrists
Tease these glistening lips
Bombard this sturdy frame
Bomb this body like a shanty town
After the white phosphor mist
Ambulate and bring the towel

Buried in the deep between
Buried in the *******
A post punk ****** scene
A sensational ligature
Tried and tested again
Test one more time just to be sure
I feel safe when I'm being choked. Or maybe, I feel like I want to be choked when I'm safe.
Marisol Quiroz Jun 2018
the difference between feeling guilty
and feeling ashamed
is that society creates shame
and guilt is within yourself.
and i do not feel guilty for who i am.


― something i learned about being queer
Sara Kellie Jun 2018
I wake up in the bath
after a day on the wine.
Fat ******* arrives
at mine around nine.
Friday night and it's too much,
the temptation.
******* powder with dehydration.

Back into town,
bouncing around like a clown.
Absorbing attention,
I'm the star of the show.
I'm cloaking my secret,
the one they can't know.

I'm out of my mind
and I've no Idea where.
I cannot go back,
'cause she lives in there.

I've been running for years,
purge after purge.
Yet I know come tomorrow,
I'll again have the urge.

Because I need her
and I love her.
I am her!

Poetry by Kaydee.
Running from my destiny but I couldn't run from myself anymore.
R Jun 2018
They tell me to be proud,
but little do they know that Pride is a deadly sin and even deadlier if I walk through the wrong alleyway.

They tell me to be confident,
but little to they know that hands-in-my-pockets-hunched-over has hid me my whole life.

They tell me to be loud,
but little do they know that disappearing quietly has kept me alive all these years.

They tell me to speak up,
But little do they know that masking who I am has allowed me to move in this world
As If I Am Free.

They tell me to be proud but pride is confidence and confidence is being loud and being loud is speaking up and speaking up

is

Dangerous? Dangerous.

They tell me it's okay,
they'll be fine,
But how could they know? They haven't
faced the fear of knowing the unlimited know -

- Secrets spilled as blood over middle school halls -

They tell me to be proud.

They tell me to be proud, as if
confirming the masses can fix all that I've broken -

-Silent shards over ***** linoleum -

They tell me to be proud.

They tell me to be proud and I nod,
breaking glass and spilling blood and
maybe one day I will.

Maybe one day I'll speak up
loud and confident,
the terror of facing them left behind, my
shining clean face proud.

But until then,
They tell me to be proud.
They say and tell and demand me to be proud.
They tell me to be proud.

Dangerous? Dangerous.
Deadly? Deadly.
Shards.
Sins.

Pride.
Shoutout to Those People Who Make Me Write This Poem. You know who you are.
R Jun 2018
Constantly fighting.
Sometimes it’s easier just to give in.
To stay silent, save your voice, don’t
Shout into the coming gales.

Running against the wind,
We all get pushed back sometimes,
Doubting whether it would do any good.
We keep quiet, terrified of speaking up.

But child.
Telling truths is the light switch,
The calm after a storm.

Follow your heart. Breathe in, breathe out.
Make your own wind.

Shout it from mountaintops,
Scream it in storms.
Whisper it in the cool dark of the night.

It’s okay. I am too.
I’m trans. I’m bi.
Nis Jun 2018
I
Left to myself I finally look up to the mirror. Tear runs through cheek.

II
Crying back to me my reflection listens as noone has before.

III
"Look deeper" she cries. Darkness dwells where nothing dwells.

IV
Past my glasses, past the glass of the mirror, past my glasses. My eyes' look at my eyes is the only thing I have left.

V
My body's body demands attention. Silent scream in the twilight of spring.

VI
A second tear runs across my ****** hair, and it knows itself a stranger.

VII
Stepping down my eyes I see my body. My body that is not my body. My body and nothing more.

VIII
My paper gets wet as a man's hand grips my pen and writes. A stranger's hand.

IX
Chest up and down, the man's body refuses my call for change.

X
And my body that is not my body moves along with my body's mirror.

XI
My manly jaw opens the silence up, and my mirror cries out. I dive in to help.

XII
I continue to step down into the night. There's nothing to look up to where I came from.

XIII
And the echoes of the well hear out my name, my real name. There is wind at the bottom of my heart.

XIV
As I dug deeper into my reflection's eyes, I reach a wooden floor. Nothing but stone saw me prior.

XV
When I look in the mirror, I am there.

XVI
A lonely little girl shivers back to me. I am alone yet I am the one that shivers.

XVII
When I step onto the wood it cracks. The girl looks at me and moves away from the light of my eyes.

XVIII
I follow. My soul cries. It is the girl that cries. It is I who cries. No surprise, I was the girl all along.

XIX
I caress the girl and take her upwards through my mirror's skin. Here she will suffer.
As I keep reading along "Extracting the stone of madness" by Alejandra Pizarnik I stumble upon a collection of 19 short textes called "Los caminos del espejo"~Ways of the mirror, so I decide to write something similar. I didn't expect to get this profound to be honest. If you like my reflection on Pizarki's poems I have now a collection of them. Also definitely check out the original as it is now translated into English.
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