#transphobic - Hello Poetry

"there are two genders, right. One goes to the gynecologist, one goes to the urologist, and one goes to the psychiatrist" Chuckles echo to the beat of Generational wealth And sickening prejudice. You know, grandma, anyone can go to the urologist. Say, for kidney stones or UTIs Silence, A mother's sharp reprimand, No words but, A glance as cold as an operating table.

0

4d ago

May 30, 2026 at 5:12 AM UTC

AbruisedBrokenThing

Family Dinner

"there are two genders, right. One goes to the gynecologist, one goes to the urologist, and one goes to the psychiatrist" Chuckles echo to the beat of Generational wealth And sickening prejudice. You know, grandma, anyone can go to the urologist. Say, for kidney stones or UTIs Silence, A mother's sharp reprimand, No words but, A glance as cold as an operating table.

11

My mother tells me to be quiet. Their home-brewed bigotry spills over every edge of the bar-- every chair laced with straight, white, borrowed souls. It spills and evaporates into the air-- unfresh, close, and thicker than before. It sprouts decayed, bone-thin fingers that wrap around my throat. My eyes water at the existence of it. I go to gasp, to sing, to fill my lungs with anything else, but she hushes me. The rest of them-- they laugh and they sip. It's bitter, it must be so bitter, but still, they sip. Disgust lingering behind their teeth, they've accepted that "this is just how things are." This is just the way things have always been. Unchanged, uneducated, unfit for survival, they simply wait for whatever comes next, and they sip. But here I sit, frantic, searching. There is no way out. The clouds descend, and I realize I was raised until I raised myself. My mother, she taught me kindness, she taught me patience; how to take turns, but she did not teach me how to breathe... in this. I taught me how to speak the oxygen of tolerance in the presence of green, noxious bigotry. I chose to live beside the oppression of race, gender, and ****** preference. I do not blame these white, straight, borrowed souls for fearing what they choose not to understand. But mother, I will no longer be quiet.

0

Aug 4, 2020

Aug 4, 2020 at 2:59 PM UTC

bforshort

(silence) it's golden

My mother tells me to be quiet. Their home-brewed bigotry spills over every edge of the bar-- every chair laced with straight, white, borrowed souls. It spills and evaporates into the air-- unfresh, close, and thicker than before. It sprouts decayed, bone-thin fingers that wrap around my throat. My eyes water at the existence of it. I go to gasp, to sing, to fill my lungs with anything else, but she hushes me. The rest of them-- they laugh and they sip. It's bitter, it must be so bitter, but still, they sip. Disgust lingering behind their teeth, they've accepted that "this is just how things are." This is just the way things have always been. Unchanged, uneducated, unfit for survival, they simply wait for whatever comes next, and they sip. But here I sit, frantic, searching. There is no way out. The clouds descend, and I realize I was raised until I raised myself. My mother, she taught me kindness, she taught me patience; how to take turns, but she did not teach me how to breathe... in this. I taught me how to speak the oxygen of tolerance in the presence of green, noxious bigotry. I chose to live beside the oppression of race, gender, and ****** preference. I do not blame these white, straight, borrowed souls for fearing what they choose not to understand. But mother, I will no longer be quiet.

36

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 claustrophobic closet 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.

0

Mar 6, 2018

Mar 6, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC

firebird

The Boy In My Closet

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 claustrophobic closet 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.

64

In Nebraska, they are murdering transexuals those with necks red as blood and lipstick This recording is the last of the words which are me -Play on the air for all to hear or smash them between these two bricks these two red bricks of earth and stone In Nebraska, they are murdering transexuals which you may think is funny when their lipstick gets smeared ridiculously across the macadam until you see their blood the same as yours until they come for you those "good old boys" with fists like bricks and necks engorged with hate and spit warm beer, **** and vinegar sun beating down on their angry, little brains This is the final transcript of all that I am embellished with sequins and such scrawled in ***** These words are my lover's breaths floating in darkness above cold ears lost in cartoon-balloon blurbs a drama of gasps a flurry of snow and chipped nails upon the pavement across the prairie in Nebraska

0

Feb 17, 2017

Feb 17, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC

-richard-j-treitner

Nebraska

In Nebraska, they are murdering transexuals those with necks red as blood and lipstick This recording is the last of the words which are me -Play on the air for all to hear or smash them between these two bricks these two red bricks of earth and stone In Nebraska, they are murdering transexuals which you may think is funny when their lipstick gets smeared ridiculously across the macadam until you see their blood the same as yours until they come for you those "good old boys" with fists like bricks and necks engorged with hate and spit warm beer, **** and vinegar sun beating down on their angry, little brains This is the final transcript of all that I am embellished with sequins and such scrawled in ***** These words are my lover's breaths floating in darkness above cold ears lost in cartoon-balloon blurbs a drama of gasps a flurry of snow and chipped nails upon the pavement across the prairie in Nebraska

28