when i look at you it fills the despondent void of what i didn't have
when i look at you it fills space to love harder needed from the past
when i look at you i am full of happiness no longer helpless
when i look at you there's a kid celebrating those victories fought
he is a spirit who goes to rest knowingly that you avenged him
Tried haiku like poems. definitely was a battle. I'm referencing my ability to smile. I often obsess over pictures of myself being happy and I've realized it's because there has never been a chance in my childhood to be myself, authentically and unapologetically. When I embrace my happiness, it's to fill the voids of unacceptance, and never feeling adequate as a kid. I recognize both behaviors, but as I grow closer to adulthood, it's something to think about.
never thought you'd be mine here i am pulling on your strings playing your melodies while the texture plays me a memory
a lost boy running for his life in the forest overrun clones of himself can't escape for he is his own greatest enemy
a boy with no features no features of a boy or what society deems a boy with hairless skin and effeminate lips a boy with no regard to how high the decibels of his voice was a boy who ran on his feet while withering his chest a boy who couldn't always take in deep breaths a boy who chose how big or how small he wanted to show the world his ***** was a boy who didn't exactly fit the narrative a boy nonetheless
but is it now that i am a man? is it now that when i touch the hair on my face, it makes me he? is it the voice i desperately tried to craft? or is it my piece of clothing that binds the skin, and bone of my body? is it my shoes and how they're bigger and longer? maybe it's my laugh and smile that gives it away. maybe it's nothing at all. and i'm deemed a man for a selfish binary who doesn't care about my traumatic experiences being hunted by my own mind.
she is blind to her crashing disaster. she'll grant me with an immunity called privilege. immunity from being recognized as a woman, and being treated as such by code.
but at least my ****** hair is tangible.
I was caressing my ****** hair and noticed it's getting really thick and coarse. Had to write about it because it's so odd knowing a version before the present me didn't have it, in this exact moment. It feels familiar yet so, foreign. It makes me question why ****** hair or anything deemed masculine is even masculine to begin with. Where did the labels come from? "at least my ****** hair is tangible" is to show, the system in which we uphold labels and micro labels can potentially be harmful, and in my case it is, but as an outcome I got something.
I dream of taking my shirt off A fantasy of skin and scars Of baring my chest to the sun Of muscle and fat and hair And all the grossest parts of the human form I want them to be mine For this body to be mine I fantasize of stripping naked In the privacy of my own room To look in the mirror and see A familiar face, a familiar body Just to see, just to look Delight unfurls in my heart Just to know, now, that I belong to myself That my own bared flesh no longer causes me pain That my own bareness is no longer a shame
I deal with dysphoria by forcing a disconnect between my mind and my body. I feel like a stranger to myself. This face isn't mine.
Prompt: Explain the story behind a picture from your camera roll (date of picture taken: August 30th, 2019)
The picture is a simple mirror selfie, but the story has more to do with what I was wearing. Earlier that day, I went to the mall to shop for my homecoming outfit with my friend, (REDACTED). It seems trivial to someone else, I guess, but to me, it was a big deal. It was because I could drive and because we were at the mall against my dad's wishes that added to my nervousness of it all. I went to the boy's section of the clothing store because I'm really short, and (REDACTED) helped me pick out a suit. My first suit. Just wearing the suit jacket, I couldn't help but smile like an idiot. It was so....right. I don't know how else to explain it. It was as if all those little pieces just fell into place and everything felt all right. For once, everything in that moment felt good and perfect. I didn't care about the curious looks from the middle-aged moms. I felt....euphoric? Euphoric. Gender euphoria.
My body and soul are not synonymous. When I look at my body, I still refer to it as she, I stare into the mirror, And she looks back at me. You can regret her but please Don't forget her. We'll never be those kids again. I can't wait to be someone else again. I'm an anomaly, a shapeshifter.