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Jaicob May 2021
No matter how many times I'm called beautiful
or pretty, of gorgeous, or any other comment,
I will always cry when I hear the name
You try to call me adoringly...

It is dead.
I bury it here
In the words.
I write its tombstone.
Bugs Spencer Aug 2022
They call my name and I fall
Falling, Falling yes Falling
It has me feeling quite tall

You call my name and I fall
Falling, falling, yes Falling
I shrink to the ground, feeling small

And hey deadname
I hate your stupid guts
You ruined everything and anything
there's no one else to blame

And oh my God
I'm sorry for fixing your
mistakes
I didn't know you'd mind so much

Now people look at me differently
They seem to pray to you God
"Change her" they ask of you intently

spewing hate and judgement gently
It only hurts if it has sharp edges
Sugar coated pills I take daily

And hey deadname
I hate your stupid guts
You ruined everything and anything
there's no one else to blame

And oh my God
I'm sorry for fixing your
mistakes
I didn't know you'd mind so much

Colors cover my body and brain
Sticky thoughts, sticky hands
But I'm the one to blame

I treat the sickness you gave
Without your sugar coated drug
acceptance is what I crave
Rowan Feb 2018
Dear Deadname,
Someday I will be able to look at old pictures of you without disgust
I will look at your long dark hair and remember how much you loved it
Loved running you hands through it as you untangled it from its curls
I will remember how it felt between my own fingers
Silky and smooth and how much I loved it myself
Your eyes that were so dark they looked black
And how at the mention of books, or cake they would light up like the Fourth of July
How your smile was so full, and real
With no underlying intent
Especially how your skin would become so dark in summer
Yet so pale in winter, and still look beautiful on you
Even your petite shape was something I fell in love with
How you fit so perfectly in anyone's arms
And maybe even one day I will be able to utter your name
I am not ready yet, though your name is a beautiful one
I want you to understand that some day I'll love you but until then
                                                            ­                             Sincerely, Rowan
This is just something I needed to do for myself.
Remus Johnson Dec 2018
you ask me why I wear concealing clothes
the truth is that I am trying to cover up the paint that you have forced upon me
People have sewn in labels and stereotypes into my skin
it's a constant struggle as I try to rip out the stitching
the second it is gone more is put in place…
people think that its ok to deadname and misgender me
I'll tell you “its fine! I know its hard to get used to it, don't worry!”
but it's not fine, not at all
I am not some practice dummy you can use to practice what respect is and isn't
I am a human just like you, but I am not like you at all
you people who use being trans and nonbinary as a joke
you people who treat trans people as if we are mentally ill
you people who think its ok to disrespect what and who we are
you people who debate if we should be allowed to exist...
I am told to “just accept who I am”
those people don't get that I do, they are the ones who don't
I am here
I am real
and I am not you
Hi, this is my first poem here, I hope you enjoy! It is about the struggles of being trans in such I cis-normative world. This is an angry poem, but it’s not angry towards everyone. It’s only only addressing my anger to people who are like what the poem describes. I hope you all have a great day!
Jaicob May 2021
Oh, {deadname},

You're my beautiful daughter.
I know you're only lying.
You'll never, ever be a boy
No matter how long you keep trying.

Give up on transitioning.
Your mind has been poisoned.
The media has consumed you-
All the lies eating their way in.

Finally, you are my precious baby girl.
You're very smart, and you know that.
Don't think you're a boy- you're not.
You should put on your smiling mask

Until you're not sick anymore,

-Your loving mother
I want to leave this house... It hurts to look at myself.
Remmy Aug 2017
I'm uncomfortable
I'm uncomfortable in this feminine peice of **** others call a body
I look in the mirror and all I see is deadname
My body isn't me
My body is deadname
I figured this out yesterday
So I finalized my decision to get top surgery
Only to find out that my insurance matches my peice of **** body
Top surgery isn't covered
Apparently it's cosmetic
*******
You don't have to live in a body that's wrong
It's not my fault I was put in a body with ***** and curves and bumps in all the wrong places
I don't have 5000 dollars because I already had to pay for intensive outpatient therapy that insurance wouldn't cover
What's the point of having insurance if it only costs and doesn't pay
Robin MacCuish May 2019
The name.
it gives me a fluttering in my stomach
a zing in my heart
a leaping feeling
the feeling of running to feel the wind in my hair
never stopping
like eating sopping wet waffles
sugary sweet sticky on a plastic plate
becoming a kid again.
But once I fly too high on that eternal flaming phoenix bird,
called false confidence,
the ashes begin to fall alongside me.
Icarus is not my name but my intention,
of dreaming too big hoping too much...
believing... in such a human invention.
Wings to let me fly like a Robin.

Angry and sad we fall to be reborn into a hope as false as we are
as false as I am.
For the truth left me as soon as I was born
and will lay dormant with me till I die.
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 hell 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.
Casey Apr 2020
My old name is dead to me.
That's why they call it a deadname.
The person who had that name breathes no more.
She was killed by my own hands.

She was named for both of her grandmothers,
some sort of sentiment to come from a careless mistake.
Maybe this is what made it so easy for me to **** her
because her name was a throw-away.

Her middle name came from the title of a movie
that her parents had once liked.
But the movie is old and bland, and the plot has no meaning.
So her names are futile attempts at trying to right a wrong,
trying to make up for something that can never be fixed.

I killed her.
I wanted her dead so badly,
so I killed her.

My name is Casey.

I am not heartless, though.
She wanted me to be Casey.
Although I killed her, she still means something to me.

I had to **** her in order to move on.
She knew that.
So I am Casey for her.

Casey.

It means spear.
A weapon.

Fitting for a murderer.
Our prompt was to write a response to "My Name" by Sandra Cisneros. I took a slightly different approach and wrote about my deadname.
Boaz Priestly Dec 2016
dear doctor crombie
rhymes with cranberry remember
that’s what you told me so that i
would remember your name
and you chuckled like that was
the most clever thing in the world
but all i cared about was getting the hell
out of the **** psychiatric ward because being
in that place made me want to try
and **** myself all over again
which is totally the opposite of
what i was hoping for when i agreed to be
admitted but i digress

because what stuck
with me more than the dismal room
i was put in that was either
as hot as hell-fire or freezing cold
to the point where i decided that i’d rather
be able to see my breath than be soaked in sweat
and your ******-*** joke
was the fact that on our first meeting
you told me that you thought my
coming out as transgender was
nothing more
than a diversion tactic

now dr. crombie
i want you to put yourself in my place
i was 16 years old
stimming and shaking as you stared me down
and then labeled me as nothing more than
a diversion tactic
and that crushed me
it had only been a few days since
i swallowed 40 trazodone and accepted
the fact that i would not be waking up again
and that was all you had to say to me
a diversion tactic
you pulled down the very core
of what i was in two words
and my god i hated you so much
in that moment

because dr. crombie
i had known i was not a girl
since i was 7 years old
and i held that inside me for 9 long years
that almost killed me
because *******
i knew that i wasn’t a girl for longer
than i had lived as a girl
and you just didn’t care
you took what i had given to you
laying myself out before you
because i was a scared
mentally ill teenager
that had just survived a
******* suicide attempt
and all you had to say
that my being transgender
was a diversion tactic

and even now
three years later
that still haunts me
the fact that you
a heterosexual cisgender male
born with a ***** and a flat chest
decided to chalk up my
9 years of hell to nothing more than
a diversion tactic

so dr. crombie
tell me what do you think
i was diverting from exactly
when i had willingly been admitted
to a sterile-smelling hellscape
where i was forced to relive
how i tried to forcibly end my life
every day in the ******* little therapy groups
that made me feel so much older and hollowed out

tell me doctor
what exactly was i diverting from
what was i trying to hide from and behind
by putting myself through the hell
of being near constantly dead-named
and misgendered and having to pay
up into the double digits just to change
my legal my deadname
and gender marker from an F to an M
and being told that i was technically still a girl
and being asked why i couldn’t just be a tomboy
a lesbian
a ****
a butch
why couldn’t i just be a girl huh
why did i have to be a boy

so tell me
dr. crombie
rhymes with cranberry
just what exactly was i
******* diverting from
Aiden Breedlove May 2021
The cold stone planted in the ground.
The wet grass surrounding the freshly dug area.
The soft dirt traveling six feet deep, and deeper.
The howling wind wanting to brush my face, but feeling nothing.
The cries of others wishing they could wake me from my eternal slumber.
The date of my first day carved indefinitely.
The date of my final day is placed beside it.
The deadname wrongly given, engraved eternally but never having sounded quite right.
The word ‘Daughter’ lasting forever, but never having felt like it quite fit.
My worst fear is to die with the wrong name on my tombstone.
My worst fear is to be buried and remembered wrong.
To not be remembered as me.
Tom Shields Aug 2022
Worlds away wonders wander the world where wits are whirled away
today say, maybe they'd astonished to see the accomplished Adonis
of Helios' Colossus over Rhodes who got up and just walked away,
with a how do dividing the curtain and cracking the equation
dropping Moses' staff, a shower curtain across the non-sequitur equator
narrowing the horizons of all laissez unfaire thinking therefore collecting sandal fare
heart to Descartes, an impressionable precursor like a fine red Monet
Immanuel Marx dogged Socrates, regarding the genes of dogs Kant a dog have his day
Left the Right Hegelians, barking Diogenes, Wittgenstein gained in time wit in rhyme
with them, Malcolm's Little shoebox shine, deadname drop Harlemite lite, right
Americanite a mineral passage of rite, the torch guiding the night, healing those
who seek the roads, scholars looking for Rhodes, reformed in prison, crossed by X
he is real, alright, the Israelite, a nation, truth inside a deception inside a deception
Plato's Allegory, a cave underground, as close as one ever gets to outside
is as close as one ever gets, months apart, crossed off, X eyes, truth denied
escape for the birds, dream on Alcatraz, Nirvana and Americana holding hands
bedrock to bedpost, money between the sheets with narcotic pride
where shadows, patriotism, politics and reality likes to hide
they come huddled, hungry, seeking an old promise
to find a statue hollow and cold inside, wander the globe,
strip the robe, a beautiful poem
centuries old, keeps a wishing dream warm
where the metal groans and grows old.
write
please read and enjoy

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