When your body is under the weather,
your eyes are foggy and dead like leather,
and those eyes keep raining, pouring, and dribbling down the sides of your sunken face,
like it's a race to see which droplet will come in first place.

The pitter-patter on your lap of the rain falling from above
feeds a pool forming between your thighs and your stomach.

The weathermen keep on reporting storms.
At least you have some warning.
The lightning flashes and blinds you,
and the thunder clashes and deafens you.

You can't hear the world around,
you're too drowned.

Some nights you wake up when it’s still dark
to bat at the breath in your ear.
You beckon into the shadows, so stark,
but you cannot hear
the sound that enticed you to hark.

You turn over onto your side,
making an attempt to hide
from the sounds and sights of the night,
but it is an already lost fight.

So close by is the turning of a bolt,
so dangerous and frightening is the jolt
that runs down your back with the slimy, dead hand,
you cover your eyes and wish it to end.

The window is latched,
but the bones pop and the paint now scratched,
so the breeze carries your blanket off of your back.
The glass is open just a crack,
but something crawls closer, really to hack.

Long and morphed are the fingerprints,
but are lost in the blitz
of stained and runny, ******, walls,
and away he crawls.

Just pretend that you don't see me
wringing my bleeding hands around my neck in the middle of class,
and just pretend that you can't see the bones in my back when I breathe quickly.

Act like you don't see the scars all over me,
and act like you don't see the blackness underneath my eyes
or the signs that I am slipping,
like my grades suffering and my work becoming sloppy.

Imagine to yourself that my home is happy,
and imagine that you do not know what is happening,
so you can reassure yourself that there is no help to be given.

I feel that I am the last thing on their mind.
That is not said as if I am the last thing that they think of at night.
I am saying this as if I am the last in the queue of those they deem important. I'm the least concerning subject.
So ask anyone and everyone and everyone and nobody (with a clear conscience) would object.

I can tell you now, so often I tend to see them.
They occupy the empty pocket between bone and brain,
and they fill the blue emptiness of sky reflected in my eyes.
Are they so oblivious? Do they just ignore this?

For however awkward I already am, and probably will always be,
they never seem to notice how I start to stutter more,
or how I try to disappear when they're near.

I stare, though, it must be clear as day.
I take in details about their face, so familiar that if I tried I could trace it into the clay.
But at the same time, if I try to remember, I picture nothing but their gaze.

I'm not lovesick for the girl,
who I call adorable.
I don't feel shy for the older one who hugs me and smiles my way in the hallways.
I don't pine for the boy who I admire for his personality at times.

I think I love the one who held purple petals out to me as a joke,
but I stuck beside for the night, still with other friends but always staring at him.
I think this time I'm just feeling for someone who caught me off guard when I realized what I've been thinking.

A handkerchief
I usually call it a bandanna
made to hide away
******* round to look natural
but I know it's not usual...

Some kid I don't even know is my hero
because he called me "he" when he doesn't even know me
and everyone else scares me
because they're constantly mocking all us ******* trannies,
saying we shouldn't exist,
because we're liars and delusional.

I can't stand people who says they're like me
just because they don't conform,
because they're not.
Not conforming isn't the same
as letting everyone see you and call you "it" and "******" and saying they hate people like you,
and not being able to breathe because you've got too beaten up by yourself hiding something
and wanting to die but only not doing it because you can't stand for a single person to talk about it with "she" on their minds.

I used to say I hated dresses and pink and all that girly **** when I was young not because I always did but because I couldn't stand anyone calling me the girly girl,
and then I always played sports, I fought and wrestled and kicked off my shoes for soccer to show the guys I was tough,
I was one of them,
and when they said I was just like them
I skipped and cried at home from happiness.

I don't believe in any god, or heaven or hell,
but I pray with all my heart
that I could have been born as someone else.
Even though I hate to feel jealous, I usually do not,
I wish so desperately that I could be any number of guys I see.

Flower face,
always so warmly bathed in the sun of the East Coast,
with such soft cheeks and swamp eyes,
stagnant and wet with little creatures inside.
They're talking to me,
saying things about why I love you,
or if I even do.

Little flower face,
it makes me ache
all over,
in my muscles and my bones,
when I think of your soft petals and long draping stalks.

I wanna pat the sandy earth into place around you on nights like these
when I can imagine the warm breeze
coming in through your open window despite the cold around me
delivering a freeze
to **** all the plants
and transform this world into something so different from your reality.

You didn't really think of anyone else,
but who am I supposed to blame?
Yeah, you may not find fame,
you may not really smile,
and I know that with this
hell's only growing for us.

I can feel fire with the knot in my throat,
when he says I should not have my own thoughts and opinions,
especially not in these conditions,
cause I know you gotta escape.

Yeah, hell's about to get so much worse,
and I am about to get so much more terse,
but it's for you so I hope this pays off.

Please don't ever ******* touch me.
Please don't ever ******* touch me because I'll snap.
Please don't hug me because we both know it's empty.
Please don't ever ******* touch me until it's to hurt me or **** me.