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El Kemp Jul 2018
People never see me.
To society, I don't exist.
Even when I bind myself so tight I cant breath,
Even when I shave my head
And pump myself full of hormones to the point I get sick,
All they do is pat my head and tell me I'm a silly girl.
Once I meet the right man they say,
I'll lose my confusion and be happy with my large ******* and generous hips.
I'll be happy raising my children and keeping house and kissing my husband when he gets home.
They look at my girlfriend with disdain and call her a phase,
They hear me begging for pronouns and simply shake their heads.
I'm forced into frilly dresses and forbidden from my bathrooms.
They put the gun to my head even as they say they're trying to help.
All they see is the identity they've forced upon me,
And people never see ME.
Angst for the soul.
Zeleyha Mata Jul 2018
You call me
She, Her, Daughter, Girl
You speak with a blind mouth,
Look at me, see me
She isn't me,
Only a fantasy that you clutch till your knuckles grow pale.
I'm not broken, I'm free
But you hide behind a veil
Afraid to finally let go of...

Long hair, Lipstick, Lace dress
You question each time I show you my truth,
"Are you trying to hide your femininity?"
No, my femininity is simply not my definition.
Spend a day in my skin, in my cage,
And don't cry when the words start to pierce you like daggers,
Shhhh... Stay silent, don't worry, it's just a phase.
Now do you see that "She" just doesn't make sense?
You speak to me but your voice seems distant,
Bouncing off of me and echoing
Like I am the hollow statue of the girl you used to see.
"I am right in front of you, you know"
But my words are only heard when they come from her lips.

Mother, Children, Wife, Woman
A silent prayer each night for all the things I am not,
Stomach swollen, hair to my waist
The glow of an expecting mother on my face.
Curves, not edges,
Pink, not blue.
Delicate hands grasping the man who stands in my place.

The man who has...
Pants swollen, hair to his brow,
Along his jaw,
Down his legs,
Sprouting from his toes.
Bulged, Buzzed, Boy
Blood on his sheets, not between his legs
A beautiful girl lies beside him
Fresh coat of gel and cologne,
Swirls of shaving cream.
Bare chest, scars, burning skin
Twitch of an Adam's apple when breath comes short,
Nervous fidgets with a tie,
tick tock,
"Pick me up at eight"
"Treat her right" "I will sir"
"Will you be my..."
"You're going to be a father!"
"You are the best daughter we could have asked for"
...."Son" I whispered.
But you didn't hear,
Maybe one day you will.
Any one who can relate to this but can’t say it, I hope I can be your voice.
oliver o Jun 2018
there are nights
when my body plays cage
the space we take up feels too much
everything numbs
and that feeling returns
the one i can only describe as burning
my body does not love me
she returns
to make herself home in my belly
there’s something familiar about it
the sting on your thighs
comforting me
oliver o Jun 2018
man in the bathroom
why are you staring at me
i’m meant to be here
oliver o Jun 2018
i wanna be that
hit me hard
daredevil soul
feel his arms
trophy boy

i wanna be that
little taller
dream boat
punk rock
pretty boy

i wanna be that
i know him
actor's heart
poet boy

i wanna be that
chin dusted
heart surgery
straight down
testosterone boy

i wanna be that boy
i wanna be me

but i can never be that boy
if it's true that boys don't cry
oliver o Jun 2018
in a way
i miss the sadness
i miss the home that never was
the beautiful you never thought you were
where did your pretty go
who's wearing your flowered dress now
who's lips are your boyfriends kissing
what will you do with no gorgeous to hide behind
who could've known this was to come
i miss your father's pride
when you gave him a reason to be sober
now all you are is disappointment
another bad situation for him to hold close to him
his favourite drinking buddy
i miss church
i miss the red the pastor turned you
the blood running to your holy cheeks
when the congregation applauded
at the fact that you would burn for this
that this secret would be the end of you
the ***** that came up in that bathroom
the god that frowned upon the smell
i miss the way boys used to look at you
when you were something to be desired
when you made others feel more than just confused
when you weren't an inconvenience to love
you'd rather your innocence be stolen for being beautiful
than for being unwanted
i suppose you pick your poison
i miss when dysphoria's name was starving
when you had something more convenient to not talk about
your taboo was less taboo
when 'now this' was two-fold and not four
when you were more scared of your own thoughts
than you were of others
i miss the way you looked
every night when you cried
your mascara stained cheeks
your blood stained hips
your grief stained heart
at least there was something gorgeous
something romantic about it
the way the moonlight made your bones stick out
it was something boys could fall in love with
you were such a pretty girl
why'd you ruin yourself like this
you were such a happy girl
how couldn't you see it for yourself
you were a trophy
don't you want a husband
don't you want children
don't you want the life we want for you and not your own
you were not happy
but how can you learn to be now
that space that played safe haven
at least, was warm
you don't know if you miss the sadness
you just know
this world wants you to
Phoenix Mar 2018
There is a boy that lives
in my closet.
I keep him in a Nike shoebox
next to my skeletons and
other things I’m trying to
get rid of.
Day by day I guard the door
to my closet
in fear of what you’ll say
when you realize
he’s not another thing
you can control.
I beg and hope that he’ll stay
inside my
but each time I let him out
it gets harder to keep him in
because now he knows
there’s something outside his
confined life.
Because now he knows
there is a world of dazzling color
and loud laughter
and he isn’t satisfied like he used to be.
So each time I leave my home
he escapes into the way I talk
or the binder on my chest
and it scares me that I can’t seem to
hide him anymore.
There was a time when I
wasn’t afraid
to let him be seen.
We used to play together,
back when we didn’t realize
you were staring at us in horror,
whispering my difference in each other's ears.
But just because he was visible
doesn’t mean he was seen
instead all you could see was a confused girl,
a “tomboy”.
But you say
I’m getting too old
to be a tomboy.
Last night you crept
into my closet
a gun in your hand
and uttered those ten painful words
I could not bear:
“You’re going to high school
as a girl next year.”
And for each word
there was a bullet wound
bleeding water from my eyes
and screams from my throat
I woke up to find locks on my closet,
a reminder that
all the courage I’d worked up to tell you
about the boy I was hiding
was a wasted effort.
The boy pounds his fists
against the empty walls
but I can only helplessly cry
for the person I wish I was.
btw the "you" in this poem is my parents
Matthew Vargas Oct 2017
Sorry to disappoint you, mother, father
But I'm not your daughter
Sorry classmates, I'm not a her
I'm a sir.
I've spread these wings, I'm ready for flight
And if necessary, I'm ready to fight
I'm sick and tired of hiding
I'm through with denying
This is me
I will be true to my heart
Nothing will shatter my pride apart.
I'm a boy. I'm a man.
And someday family, I hope you understand.
I wrote this and I'm gonna start posting more trans and ***** related stuff woo!
blaise Jun 2017
hi! my name is DEADNAME
i hear it resonate through my dysphoria, i recoil from my body. i desperately want to hold a match stick up to my birth certificate and watch every letter blacken into ash, when i grow up to be a tombstone i want you to burn me too. ignite all the dresses i wore to church.

my name is WOMAN and
no matter how many times i insist that it is not, i will be categorized with a quaking punch in my stomach and i will throw up SHE. no matter how many times i jam this hoodie into a washing machine it will reek of MISS. i am cloaked with words of caution to the public (WARNING: PROBABLY JUST A PHASE) in attempts to subdue the truth because if it unraveled i would be myself, and myself will shatter minds and destroy virtue because my psyche is a crime scene, my humanity is a dangerous opinion, and my identity is a car crash. it is a siren wailing magenta; it wraps around my chest like police tape- i wish i could use it as a binder. those knuckles feel infinitely more therapeutic than the aftershock of FEMALE. i would much rather be bruised and downtrodden and battered and beaten from every centimeter of my body than to submit to the declarations of GIRL. i want you to punch me again please punch me again please punch me again please punch me again please punch me again please

my name is DELUSIONAL and
i heal paper cuts with bow ties because it’s as close as i can get to a suit when me and my wardrobe are confined within the same nine square feet of wooden floor. i still come close to weeping when i get my flu shot, but fill that syringe with testosterone and by god you can slay me like a beast, skewer that needle through my skin like a katana and i will embrace it. i will live for the torment, pretty hurts and, by god, i am a *******, to mask the sting by god i will sing like a gospel, a gospel who gets called handsome by strangers and owns a voice deep as a ******* ravine.

my name is SNOWFLAKE and
i hope i give you hypothermia, *******.

my name is YOUNG LADY and
while filling out my passport application i flooded the box with an M beside it with ink and never told my mother and i smiled to myself for the first time that week and i still don’t regret it, i will never regret it because no matter how many times i hear edicts of DAUGHTER she can never take that precious M away from me.

my name is SINNER and
i am a disgrace to faith. a mutant, a freak, an abomination, a monstrosity, not a man- just a girl who aspires to mutilate herself into an excuse for one. i am a shapeshifting sorcerer, you see LESS THAN HUMAN. little do you know i am a ******* DEMIGOD and i may be the owner of weeping willow twigs for arms and i may be left on the brink of passing out when i climb up the stairs but i will grip you by the collar of your shirt and haul you into **** with me on the other side of this mirror, by god.

my name is BLAISE.
i found this out at age eleven. i deciphered myself at age eleven. it’s just one syllable. it is a firecracker mistaken for a gunshot and i will leave cisnormativity riddled with bullets and the pistol’s name will be BLAISE. a kid from middle school will run into me on the street and tell me they can’t quite remember what my name is and i’ll shamelessly rewrite history and remind them, it’s BLAISE; a lady at starbucks will ask what to write on my cup and i will say BLAISE and she’ll spell it 'blaze', but i don't give a ****, it’s good enough, i will scream my revelation from my fire escape at four in the morning in triumph MY NAME IS BLAISE and someone will yell back from their car HEY BLAISE, SHUT THE **** UP and i’ll take it as a tribute, BLAISE is a MAN and HE sliced his body open and poured ecstasy inside when a cashier called him SIR that one time at walgreens. BLAISE is yet another piece of proof that the assignment received by some ****** in a lab coat doesn’t have to be a prison and you don’t fully understand these boxes we’re crammed in until you break them yourself. BLAISE'S individuality is authentic, HIS love is authentic, HIS reflection in the mirror is authentic, and its name is BLAISE. BLAISE found out the life expectancy of a transgender person is around thirty-two years old and you better believe that BLAISE will live to be thirty-three and HE will give a little bit of hope to trans youth who don’t even think they’ll be able to wake up to sixteen and HE will give a big ol’ ******* to everyone who doesn’t think HE deserves to breathe in their world for that long, by god, you better believe that BLAISE will live to be thirty-three, you better believe that BLAISE will make it to thirty-three, you better believe that HE will make it to thirty-three, you better believe that I will make it to thirty-three.
a t l a s Oct 2016
"you're a boy? but you look like a girl."
graces my ears too often for it to be innocent anymore.
some days i wish the word woman didn't make me cringe
i wish i didn't have to tell teacher after teacher,
"i know what it says in attendance, but my name is atlas and my pronouns are he/him i'm depending on you not to ***** up, i need this to feel normal, please don't make me feel invalid like all my efforts to erase the young lady i was expected to be at birth will never amount to anything more than a teenager's attempt to be 'different'"
i think sometimes i hate my mind more than my body, because it's the one that does the screaming.
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