Collected like an old book collection the dust that falls off me are the ashes from every tear I've ever burned. They fell the already paved way down my cheeks and into the abyss of nothingness. Holding her at arms length so as not to break anything between us.

It creeps in like a cold sweat as if its a snake coiling around its prey suffocating the very last breath ill ever breathe. This will be my last goodbye. It runs through my veins like ***** and a chaser the only side effect is a few more scars. Its my invisible friend who i just cant seem to outgrow. Years of therapy a bottle of medication. Trying to find my remedy to cure this crippling sadness. The vines webbed with thorns wrap around my body making me bleed. I am no knight, i have no sword of courage no armour of love. I am just that scrawny unwanted boy no one even thinks twice about.
12a.m.  i know i should be asleep by now but the hours ahead i know all too well how they play out. Talk on the phone for an hour and 20 minutes he will fall asleep and i will still be wide awake.
1a.m.  hang up the call, worry that im a nuisance scroll through music selection. Read a bunch of quotes that somehow always relate to me.
1:30 a.m.  beg myself to just fall asleep if i dont fall asleep the monsters i use to always think were under my bed that are really in my head come out to play. Its like i am the westerner that brought a balloon to a gun fight. Funny yet somehow that is the definition of my life, always unprepared.
2:15 a.m.  sleep drenches my body like the sun lights up the sky, hopeful ill be able to sleep through the night, listen to calming music that makes my eyes droop and heart feel happy sleep has arrived
2:35 a.m.  still awake but tired shut my eyes as if there are ten pound weights on each no longer able to keep them open. So happy i got through the night with no unhappy thoughts or breakdowns. Sleep...that is where i will escape my depression.
2:59 a.m.  wake up depression is calling you to wake up like a crying newborn that just needs its mothers touch. I wish it was that simple. If a caring hand would hold onto me as i fall asleep reassuring me they will never leave. The thoughts rush into me, making me hit the floor crying out for god to make it stop.
3:10a.m.  text him, hes awake and he makes things feel okay. Worry fills you as he tells you something. He tells you hes okay now. Let out the breath you have been holding this whole time. He goes to bed. You know you should too but now your depression and all the little demons living inside your bones, inside the very heart that keeps you alive, comes out to make you feel like dying.
4:00a.m.  you realize you have six hours left to sleep. But your mind wont turn off and you just need someone anyone. Its as if you are on a ship out to see and you can no longer keep afloat, the water starts fillig rapidly as you see your life flash before your very eyes. Sleep. You just want to sleep to escape this mess.
4:06a.m. *i have given up the fight for everything. My body will be but a robots. There is no use. It is over. The fight is over and i have lost

Bleeding palms blood like a river, down his arms breathing heavy broken glass inside his bones. Bad news has never felt this deadly. He will never be the daughter you want, he sobs into his pillow at night muffling the sincerity of wishing he could be what they wanted. Late nights watching transitioning videos after a year she could be taken as a man and that is all she wants. His girlfriend tells him she hopes with all her might he won't be the man he feels inside. Trent. Her tongue slithers over every letter with a distasteful feeling in her mouth. Her head shakes "no, you are Tory to me. You are her. I cannot love you if you are him" bullets fired ricochet his chest he holds as if having been stabbed multiple times with a rusted dull butter knife. Pour salt on every wound scrub with mothers perfume nightly like the prayer ritual he can't keep up with. The perfume is the closest he will ever be to being a she. He was born in the body with a girlish figure . his chest denies him the right to be called trent. 23. That's how long the statistics say I'll live to be . 23 nobody cares if your 23, maybe 21 or even by chance 22 but nobody gives a rats *** if you die at age 23. 23..... That would mean before I ever fully get to be him I will know death as a close companion. I am trent, my pronouns are confusing to you because you don't see the bigger picture. Their hands tied together like vines wrap around my mouth and whisper " keep him in" they yell selfish profanities that you are the evil one. I am trent, seventeen is such a young age to be thinking about how I will die. 23 that's how long I'm expected to live. He will never be the daughter they wanted she never existed and now she's stuck tying ace bandage around the ******* she can't seem make invisible. Ace bandage is not what this is suppose to be used for. His ribs crack and he smiles, the breath he can barely take is worth being the man he is. Whites of eyes no remaining life he will only live to be age 23 and death has already got the grasp on him. I am trent, blood spilling windpipe giving out drowning with the last words I am trent. Nobody cares if you die at age 23