Hey dysphoric trans girl,

I see you.
Your outfit is really cute today.
And I'm really proud of you for getting
Our of bed with such grace.
The weight of dysphoria is heavy
Let me carry it with you.
You're essential to the world we live in.
You're more than a trending topic.
Your bodies existence is a radical act
And it's survival is worthy of celebration
Disappointment *****.
Being able to still be disappointed
Means you are engaged in your life.
You are an active player.
That's good!
Every part of you is a girl.
Especially the part you don’t like today.
Your voice, hands, and feet are feminine
What else could they be

Love,
A dysphoric trans boy

There's a girl that follows me everywhere.
Sometimes she trails behind me like a shadow,
And sometimes she stands in front of me like a distorted reflection
From a mirror that doesn't speak the present tense.
Words don't exist between us,
She just looks at me with blue eyes bordered by long lashes.
Sometimes I drag her through the looking glass
And tell her she's just like me.
But not as smart.
She looks at the mirror and sees wounds, scars, flaws, ugliness,
Where I see learning, growing, beauty.
Life itself is dancing across her skin
To a beat so fast and erratic that it leaves scorches.
I try to tell her that,
But my words are silenced by her attempts to grow wings.
I applaud this display of determination,
But I sit so far back that she fails before the claps reach her ears.
I sit there and watch her, and it's funny, because I have her wings,
But I can't give them to her, she can only grow them.
So I ask life to snap her DNA in a few places, replace them,
Whisper a few words of wisdom into her brain and hope that those seeds take,
Mutate. Grow into the wings she wants,
The wings that'll let her fly to places
She doesn't even know yet that she wants to go.
Child, girl, adolescent, you'll never be a woman.
You won't live long enough, you'll die bleeding,
Ripping out your ****** while shedding skin.
And you know what? You'll love it.

In a wayward adventure in curiosity —
lured away from savvy of cooler judgment,  
he oversteps the bounds of reality 
into a state of altered awareness.

Overwhelmed by a rapid beginning
of a buzzing sensation — The Rush;
emanating from deep inside him, 
surging along the veins streaming 

euphoria through cells of his entire body:  
inside the body, with warm pleasure waves
flushing over the by now tingling skin
soughing off all unpleasant feelings.

Mouth numbed, limbs heavy, and eyeballs 
rolling back from hitherto an unimaginable
state of bliss, he savours the calm explosions
of the pulsating bubbles in his head.

A magical moment of sheer ******* 
rapture—that ends in a lasting sedation—
during which he's dazed with wonderment
while covered by a cozy blanket of content.

He falls in love with the insidious drug.
And he begins to relish its sweet fruition
in a seemly pattern of use that is put
in the shade to protect his best interests.

A stake in normalcy that seeks to confine
his usage of the opioid to a social occasion.
But soon enough he drifts towards a regular
recreational use; indulging on weekends,

floating, flying, and soaring in wonderful
ripples of pure delight, feeling very mellow
and satisfied, in an illusionary paradise of
forgetfulness where nothing hurts any more.

Bit by bit as time goes by his body builds up
a tolerance for the sedative, prompting his
intake of higher and more frequent doses
to feel as well as to sustain the desired effect.

This occurs because his body attempts to
adapt to the presence of the drug by quickly
breaking it up and purging it out of the system,
thus making it less potent as it was before.

At this stage of his drug abuse he's still able to
control whether to use the stuff or not, where
and when to use it, without stress. He could
also abstain from the opioid fairly responsibly.

But at the limits of his body's flexible response
to the dangerous substance, he begins to suffer
from its unpleasant side-effects that show up
a short period of time following his last use.

The pleasurable, but short-term, therapeutic
effects of the hard drug are now being
overshadowed by several of its undesirable
withdrawal symptoms that manifest as:

fatigue, irritability, cold chills/sweat, itchy skin,
muscle spasms and tremors, body ache, and
stomach cramps among others, with an
increase in his body's cravings for the opioid.

The onset of these torturous side-effects of
the stimulant marks the beginning of his body's
physical dependence on it, as he now relies
on the drug to fend off the terrible affliction.

He has bitten at the bait of pleasure oblivious
of the hook beneath it. The once casual user,
who had thought he could quit the habit at will
without stress, has advanced to problematic use.

The drug has become an integral part of a daily
routine that is gradually heading towards chaos.
Regardless, he's still able to go to work and
take care of his day to day responsibilities.

In time, a new sickness begins to fester inside
him: the opioid is tightening its grip on him,
as his body's physical dependence on it
is now generating his addiction to the drug.

This psychological dependence on the drug
has set in with anxiety disorder accompanied
by emotional and behavioural problems:
the duo classic signs of a progressive disorder.

The drug has become something he needs
to sleep or to fully wake up. His sleeping
pattern has also been altered; up at night
and intermittently dozing off during the day.

As dosage of the narcotic rises, so does
the torture of the painful lows and other
symptoms of addiction, making his cravings
for the sedative increasely more intense.

As it is, he's needs several hits of the drug to
make it through the day. All at once he wants
to use! He begins to look forward to using.
He would ingest the drug in risky situations

such as, while at the wheels of his car or
working at his job; always desperate to avoid
withdrawal symptoms as well as to revel in
the bliss of the drug's comforting warmth.

At times he'd skip work 'chasing the dragon':
pursuing the out-of-reach elation levels of
his initial euphoric high, swinging between
feelings of mediocrity and that of ecstasy.

Always, his body would afterwards crash
below baseline, barely able to cater for his
daily needs. The habit has long ceased
to be the fun that it was intended to be.

Like a vicious cycle the relief from the opioid,
which is not justified by external reality,
is being obtained at the cost of the
worsening addiction and a spike in distress

whenever his body is low on the drug.
The more he indulges on the sedative
to calm his racing mind, the more
its comfort zone seems to be desired.

Disoriented in the rigours of his vice,
he strays in the abyss of drug addiction:
a dark, weary place where priority disorder 
is dictated by events outside of his control.

It is this corrupted impulse control that
causes his sick obsession with the narcotic,
rendering him unfit to articulate rational
thoughts: a chronic brain disorder.

In this harmful shift away from reality,  
utmost in his mind is the insidious drug:
over and above his job, his goals, family,
love, friends, hobbies and personal hygiene.

Oddly enough the foremost essentials of life
like water, food, and sleep are also not spared.
He could be ill and he won't care.
No other thoughts can cohabit in his world.

Emotionally invested in his fantasy world,
the toxic substance has kindled in him
an inner turmoil — setting off an overriding
feeling of emptiness that aches in his heart.

The habit much harder to lose than it was
to find: an ongoing effort to wean himself off
the drug is being crushed by a dysphoric mood
and a sickly feeling that intensify in severity.

These horrifying withdrawal symptoms
are a result of the sedative's induced
alterations in the biochemistry of his
brain's system of reward and punishment.

Instead of a mild, blissful flow of the brain's
happy hormones, as is experienced while
one is indulging in a tasty food, on receiving
a great news, or while engaged in any other

kinds of novelty that fill us with a delicious
pleasure, the opioid whose chemical structure
is similar to that of the natural chemical
messengers of the brain, Happy Hormones,

by mimicking these primary drivers of the
brain's reward system the psychoactive 
drug sends a false signal of euphoria to
the complex *****, triggering an instant

and fast secretion of an abnormally large
amount of the 'feel-good hormones', that
begin to surge along its pleasure pathways
overwhelming the reward centre of the brain.

It is this huge outpouring of happy hormones
in the region that elicites in him a sudden
burst of energy, a pleasant state of mild
drowsiness, mental alertness, relaxation, ...

This already intense, euphoric effect of the
opioid is further amplified by the drug's
blocking of the pain partways of the reward
system, thus dulling his emotions and worries

by eliminating any feeling of sorrow, regret,
guilt, fear, or loneliness. Upon intake of the
mood-altering drug, he would feel warm when
cold, calm when angry, bright when grumpy,

filled when hungry and happy when irritable,
with almost a total refrain from the tendency
to view anything in bad light. This dramatic
result makes every normal thing look better

and brings forth a deep sense of satisfaction
as though all his needs have been met.
However, this almost perfectly desirable 
body and mind experience is an artificial

feeling that only lasts a few hours at most.
When the drug's effects wear off, because
the brain, which has come to rely on the steady
supply of happy hormones, cannot adjust

all at once, it gets stuck in overdrive which
results in the withdrawal symptoms. It is so
because his brain, whose system of reward
and punishment has been tampered with,

seeks to counteract and accomodate for
the sweet thrills of the drug's euphoric high,
by secreting much less happy hormones while
the foodgate of pain hormones is thrown open.

Just like a huge surge of happy hormones
elicits unnatural levels of euphorical pleasure,
a spike in flow of pain hormones produce
in him the torturous withdrawal symptoms.

These unwanted side-effects whose rise and
fall are subject to drug levels in the system,
is the debt he has to pay for the supreme
bliss that is relished during his opioid highs.

It is all about his brain seeking to maintain
Homeostasis: a normal, healthy body function.
Once he's able to amerce with penance due,
he'll feel good again with no need for the drug.

Another flip side of the illicit habit is that over
time, the regular surge in happy hormones
disrupts the resilience of the reward region
of the brain, causing physical changes that

have drastically reduced his brain's ability
to produce the 'pleasure juices', or respond
to any stimulus other than the one being
triggered by the psychoactive substance.

This is clearly seen in his lost of interest in
activities that he once enjoyed, since his brain
suffers from lack of happy hormones which
influence one's capacity to be in a good mood.

Because the narcotic has also disrupted
activities in the control region of the brain,
his whole thought pattern, perspective and
behaviour, all radically change along with it.

It is this reprogramming of his brain that has
altered the interior reality of his mind, in ways
that result in him going into 'survival mode'
in the absence of the drug during a withdrawal.

While in this irritable, aggressive and erratic
state, he would forego anything and everything
to obtain the narcotic because he's thinking
of his drug use the same way an individual 

who is parched with thirst thinks of water.
This desperation in seeking out the drug as
a vital lifeline is due to his compromised brain
'thinking' it needs it as a matter of survival.

A habit he had maintained at the outset
because it made him feel extremely good
has tuned against him, quite often, coercing
him to use for the avoidance of pain.

The sedative as dear and painful to him
as an imbecilic child is to its mother,  
he continues on the foreboding route 
for which he has no power of deviation.

Despairing in the clutches of addiction,
the drugs traumatize him, they infuse
toxins into his spine, and he wouldn't
know whether he's coming or going.

He's kept on saying to himself, 'I'm going
to quit for good after using one last time.'
But that remains to be seen as the drug
goes on dulling his inner light day by day.

In a downward spiral that stuns those 
acquainted with him, he loses his job,
his car is repoed, and he's evicted from
a nice home that had been stripped bare.

Drowning in unpaid bills and desperately
in debt having blown an entire life-savings
on the drug, the loss of everything and a few
remaining friends leaves him fatally devastated.

The dangerous drug has evoked a negative
ripple that is felt throughout all that he's
part of. An awful realization that settles in
with cold clarity, eliciting a lurch of dismay

over his dire ignorance about the drug
which has led to the ugly entrapment.
In deep, sorrowful thoughts consumed
with self-loathing he puts a curse upon

the day he first laid eyes on the hard drug.
With the best resolve he's able to muster,
driven by exasperation to kick the habit,
he strives to make his will like stone —

a facade that is soon razed by his urgent need
for the ****** to stave off withdrawal. With a
burden of guilt and shame that can't be faced
he retreats into the haze of his own misery.

With more problems and stresses than ever
he plunges from troubled life to no life,
completely losing touch with reality as the
disorder assumes a more dangerous form.

His fixation on the ****** has taken a turn for
the worst. Besides his strong cravings for it
to ward off withdrawal as well as to experience
its euphoric high again, it has become more

crucial than ever for him to keep his emotions
constantly desensitised to life, by numbing
the agony of living to ease the passage of
day with purchased relief from the sedative.

Locked in this highly destructive pattern
of drug use, he would stop at nothing
to feed the habit: he would cheat, steal,
lie or betray no matter who to get his 'fix'.

Like the spreading of cancer in the body,  
his affliction has metastasized way 
beyond him, chipping away at the sense
of wellbeing of everyone around him.

As frequent and ready targets for theft
his family have to always watch out for him,
in a resentful relations in which they never
could feel at easy with him around their home.

Wallets, jewellery, gadgets, or any other
easy to carry household valuables, that are
not safely locked away, will go missing.
For days at a time he, too, will vanish.

He'd eventually return like the 'prodigal son'.
Always, he's found the door open after
prolonged periods of avoiding home, even
on occasions when he'd been kicked out.

In the many months gone since losing his
source of livelihood, he's been pushed
into a number of rehabilitation facilities,
but as yet has failed to clean up his act.

He's also been in and out of rehab thrice
following hospital discharges for drug
overdose. On the last occasion, he was
found passed out in the family's bathtub.

Timely arrival of the paramedics had saved
his life. Notwithstanding, a nagging urge
to 'use' continues to feed and reinforce
the habit after each discharge from rehab.

It's been most upsetting to the parents
who have had to watch him visibly change
before their eyes: from a good, healthy
son, who had always had his act together,

to as it is, a thin, patchy-skinned loner with
a baffled demeanour — who buries his head
in low self-esteem to conceal the frequent
dilated and glassy pupils from mutual gaze.

Nothing points more to the helplessness 
of the family's plight than having to finally
admit to their little, or no influence, over
the ravages of the stigmatized disorder.

A harrowing experience for a household
whose life-savings, along with compassion
for him, have completely been exhausted
with no more tears remaining to shed.

The hurting family at the end of its tether
confronts him with an ultimatum:
to get his life in order or face the music.
Coldly, they all watch him leave home.

His descent into the final stages of rock-
bottom has been swift. He starts by crashing
on fellow addicts' couches and floors,
but soon his welcome quickly wears out.

Now among the ranks of the homeless the
hobo would wake up feeling sick, and his day
would consist of shoplifting, petty thefts,
begging, and struggling to find others ways

to obtain money in order to feed the habit.
At nights, even on stormy ones, the rough
sleeper would crash wherever there's shelter,
never worrying about waking up the next day.

A hellish existence on the street that has
provoked a string of run-ins with the law. 
Nabbed stealing on ill-fated occasions,
he's manhandled in a most indecent way.

Tired, hungry and sick, the erstwhile ray of
hope, who once had a strong sense of self,
is currently a nervous wreck who envisages
life through the lens of opioid stupor.

Much beyond his ability to ask for help, 
his hurting family proceed to rescue him.
Under the humbling load of drug addiction
he staggers into another rehab facility.

But the often slippery climb to recovery
is never easy. It's yet another chance for him
to submit to a slow and delicate therapy on
his brain, whose structure and functions are

badly impacted by years-long use of the drug.
The healing process is a labour of discipline
and commitment, coupled with patience
in order to allow the brain to adapt back

toward normalcy by gradually regenerating
and rebalancing itself. In a gruelling task he's
expected to learn to care for a body that
now must struggle to work in a different way.

Desiring to put their lives back together many
druggies have been able to crawl their way out
of the murky shadow — a big chunk of them
through the guiding light of structured help.

Amongst them were 'walking corpses' whom
possessed by their 'enough is enough', were
enabled to find the inner fire vitally needed
to rekindle the cold embers of self-image.

There's the fella cast adrift feeling wholly
disconnected from self and the world.
He's mourning the loss of a vital lifeline
that has always helped him cope with life.

He had been through it many times before,
the fatigue, stomach cramps, aches, itchy skin, ...
But, he's in the early stages of withdrawal when
cravings for the narcotic are at their worst.

This initial withdrawal agony is the biggest
hurdle any addict has to overcome in the often
stop-start journey to recovery. If he could
somehow find the courage to suffer through it,

the fierce and ceaseless cravings for the drug
would be considerably reduced, making
them easier for him to deal with. Eventually,
they will dissipate the longer he stays sober.

He's being offered a way out of his captivity,
but he's unable to embrace the opportunity
with open arms because the addiction,
which convinces him the only option available

is to indulge on the drug, is blocking him from
seeing the available escape route. It has shut
off his ability to get up on the inside to face
the seeming overwhelming barriers to sobriety.

Like one in the grip of Stockholm Syndrome,
he has developed a type of trauma bonding
with the treacherous drug: the more it hurts
him, the more his irrational affection for it.

With his consciousness constantly revolving
around the insidious substance, he just
can't imagine a chronic user like him
being sober and happy again without it.

That being the case, he fails to see any point
in struggling to remain sober when in such
times he's beset by an awful illness attended
by a serious depression that is no help.

Regardless of the wreckage of his past,
everything that is dear to him plus the very
essence of life on the line, he's left convinced
that giving up the destructive habit would

mean endless suffering and feeling deprived
for the rest of his already sad existence.
More than any other reasons, he just
won't quit because he's powerless to resist.

In default of any dreams of ever recouping
losses that are manifestly out of reach,
the drug with a firm grip on him serves 
as a buffer to keep his ugly reality at bay.

All that he wants is to return to the 'loving
arms' of the opioid, very much aware that
the feeling of the drug's high now that he's
in pain can be one of the best things ever.

But even so, as tempting as the desire to jump
the healing process may be, he's bitterly
mindful of the horrors of street life that
loom upon him with such frightening aspect.

Savagely trapped with no good choices he
slips into a real fear of relapse. In anguish
withdrawal and cravings plague him daily,
and they won't allow him a moment's peace.

Utterly incapable of rising from the ashes 
to hold it all together—no hope—
nothing to hope for—everything out 
of focus—mind spiraling out of control.

In a fit of extreme anxiety the now rampaging
urge to 'use' prods him, closer and closer,
to the brink of a nervous breakdown. Suddenly,
his need for a 'hit' becomes most vital as.

Sweating profusely and trembling all over
with fear clutching a pilfered smartphone,
forgetful of future suffering the rehab
jumper hurries along the forbidden path.

All alone with the merciless companion: 
nowhere to go and no one to turn to. 
Wretchedly wretched in additive agony
the ****** fades away into nothingness.








AUTHOR'S NOTE


The Abyss Of Drug Addiction is written in 112 non-rhyming quatrains.

The rendition is a poignant story depicting the sad existence of many drug users. The verse uncovers and illuminates, step by step, the different stages of drug addiction and the mental processes of the unable to function drug users.

The paramount aim of the work is to shed some light on the sinister shadow of drug addiction: to unveil to all and sundry, especially teenagers and the youths, the hazards of drug abuse and the vicious downward spiral that can be caused by it. 

Just as the euphoric experience of all kinds of hard drugs differ significantly, so are their withdrawal symptoms. Despite their seeming surface unrelatedness, whichever hard drug it may be, the creation of an illegal and dangerous dependency in users is a common denominator.

[The Rush is described as a feeling very much like a heightened and prolonged ****** ******. A great relieve of tension. It is mostly felt when ****** or any of it's derivatives opioids/opiates is administered intravenously].

In quite a disturbing hyperbole a ****** addict described the drug's EUPHORIC RUSH as follows:
"Take the best (******) ****** you've ever had, multipy it a billion and you're still no where near it... "

Remember Victor Frankenstein-
his fault that transcends generations,
no, no, no not his desire my dear child,
hiding the daemons of our minds-
that is the real tragedy.

His heart told him to continue-
as if following the heart trumps the brain,
his skin crawling as his eyes widen-
gasping and panting with his heart.

Remember Victor Frankenstein-
watching his family disappear,
the secret hidden away- but so
what, remember Victor Frankenstein-

Victor Frankenstein is the template.

Finding ourselves sharing space and thought,
yet gaining nothing- for there is still a boundary,
the ideas locked away in the corner-
hidden from the other-
desiring oneness with the other-

Individualism never leaves,
but the allurement-
of having a mind to share,
a heart to hold-

Binding the mind for the sake,
of a manic heart.

But the knowledge is there,
though there is a together-
is there really a together?

Pain wracks my fragile bones.
Everything hurts me,
So please, please don't
Come close or touch me.

I can't look at my body
Because it isn't what I want.
I know it's selfish, you see,
But it's a paper without a font.

My skin is a tapestry of
Beauty and pretty and all
In the perfect girl you'd love,
But guys: absolutely appalled.

Nothing matched on me-
I'm the missing left sock,
My bones' rattle is all I'll be
Until I take the final walk.

There in the field she came to me,
The last of the silver honeybees.
I could see the years worn in her face,
Lost in the dark, one foot in the grave.

She held the ache behind her eyes,
So young to have her throat closed tight.
Poor girl, an orphan, with ribs of steel
Bone cage laced too tight to feel.

Then came the lonesome cosmonaut,
Betwixt the stars, those years he lost;
A nomad’s tale, nor here nor there
Too high up to come down for air.

Celestial darlings, they go round and round,
Dysphoric we hasten the final burnout:
From birth to evanesce, the hedons expire
Would love rot my teeth for afflictions less dire?

Last came the poet, out from the gloam
******* on pennies, and ink soaked through bones.
She gathered her strength and fell from the sky
While friends in high places twinkled goodbye.

once upon a time
a boy lived in a castle
and someone was trying to climb
up to rescue him

but he fears that’s not enough
because he was stuck
stuck in the muck
of a very dysphoric rut

he didn’t want to be stuck
but he thinks
it’s just his own bad luck
he was born
without holding a freakin’ blue truck

he built the castle to protect
from the others that will disrespect
that’s not correct
but it’s what he expects

he hopes people will understand
that he’s a real boy
and this wasn’t planned
this "change" is for him
and not for anyone else in the land

maybe when the someone gets up here
he might be able to tell them about all his thoughts
and make it all clear
maybe, hopefully,
in the new year

I didn’t sleep tonight
Well.
I did something kinda
I never remember being a typical child. I was always wary. And very aware of everything. And I can’t remember a time where my brain wasn’t bouncing around, inquisitive. No matter who you are, there are small things you do that aren’t actually unique. All humans twitch in a spot on their face when they’re disgusted. We all have a nervous tick. Etcetera. Knowing this as a child made me very self conscious. My ego would say it made me self “aware”. But I watched my movements. And paid attention to my nervous tick. Phrases I would pick up and find amusing, and why. I was so careful not to do anything that would put me in a vulnerable spot. I wanted to be perfectly unnoticeable.
And I decided tonight, I’d go through the years that were especially hard for me and addresss the trauma in a chronological order.
Some of my very first memories ever in my life were of violations. I was touched and caressed, but not by my mother. This terrible man with a bit of a belly. And I would have thought it was normal, except for the sick bottomless pit in my stomach. And my rigid muscles. And it hurt sometimes.
Then I remember being with my mother. And staying at the white house with the flower pots filled with cigarette ash instead of soil. And I kinda liked it. The flower pots I mean. But I absolutely loved being with her. So many memories with her. So many sunny memories.
But I started seeing her less and less. And it was just weird. And uncomfortable. I had somewhat numbed myself, and hence there were many years spent I’m a daze. I was dreaming. But it was a melancholy dream. And I remember the foster kids my parents fostered. And they made me do things with another family member. Multiple times. And it was just so odd to me that this would happen, I didn’t know if this was normal or not. But I thought all this time I was somehow responsible and I’m trouble. Or at least, if I discussed this with any adult, it would be entirely unorthodox. Ludacrious.
And there was so much pain.
Then I had grand mal serizures (or however you spell it idc) for around two years I think. Only about like 8? Seizures. But every time it happened I just felt my memory going away. It was the strangest sensation. I would lose an entire week here or there, and days after they happened I would be a little dysphoric. And maybe there is a god that had mercy on me, and gave me those seizures as a way to literally forget some of what I had been through. Or repress I guess.
Anyway, then I was a very charismatic, secretly introverted girl during junior high. I had my first kiss and it really ******. It was just... tense-*** lips smushing against mine. I also had my lips closed though because I didn’t know you parted them for kisses. Like I had always seen my mom and dad do a quick peck so I didn’t know what to do really. But he said I was a good kisser, but what junior high boy wouldn’t say that about any girl he kissed tbh.
And I became VERY devout in the religion I had been raised in. Full-on future missionary. I read the scriptures frontto back multiple times. Blah blah blah.
Then I met my first love, and there was an electric shock that went through my body. I was mesmerized by this feeling. I shook his hand, told him my name, and he told me his. That went on and off from 9th? Grade? until I graduated and a little after. It was a long relationship, full of a lot of different times. Good times, bad times. But mainly we were toxic to each other. We didn’t know how to love properly. He was fighter, who believed he was the king of kings. And I thought that in every single way, he was. I was truly bewitched. And he’d hold me tight, and wouldn’t let me go, even when I wanted to be let go. He collapsed at my feet and sobbed in my lap. And I did the same with him. We were so wounded, but similar. And found solace and endless banter in a moment together.
At this point my mother died. And I travelled barely out of state to attend her funeral. I saw all of my siblings. And stuff slowly started coming back to me. Weird snippets of early childhood existence. I couldn’t process it all, and so I emotionally shut down for the billionth time. But my first love was here for me.
Leaving a note on my doorstep that I remember particularly. “On sunny days, on rainy days. You are just as sweet.” With cherry blossoms.
Funny, my mother smelled like Japanese cherry blossoms.
So eventually we had raging hormones, young teens, and we started becoming intimate. But I was rigid. And in the back of my head, I knew why. I had repressed the repeated acts of abuse throughout my entire life. But I just wanted to forget about that. It didn’t make sense, I loved him, so why should I shy away from physical/****** interaction. I believed I was broken, something more was wrong with me. And one night he fingered me, I guess he had learned that from watching ****? Because I had no idea what he was doing. And it hurt because I wasn’t even wet. But I just was silent with a clenched jaw, not wanting to be a disappointment. The next thing, I lost my virginity to him. And what’s funny is the way he convinced me to is by saying, “For Science!”
I still find that amusing. I was like 17 or 18 I think and still a ******. I should have stayed one. The first time we had *** and I lost my virginity just seemed like I was sleepwalking. I was watching myself interact sexually with him, but I wasn’t present. Every single time I was sexually abused rushed back to my mind. And I felt as though somebody had cut off my limbs, severed my head, packed my whole body (piece by piece) into a business briefcase. And walked out the door with my body.
After that I kind of freaked out. Just too much going on. I couldn’t handle it. And my first love tried to **** himself in the months following. I think, after almost four years of companionship, we had *** only a handful of times, and it got easier and easier for me. But he tried to **** himself after we were “off” again. So I went right by his side, trying to piece together his life so he could be at peace. And not have the turbulent mind he had. And we were together. But then I had gotten up the courage to break it off again, and for good. We needed to move on. I knew what I was going to say to him, I knew I wanted to be close and have one last moment together. Finality. Closure.
But he said, “you kissed another guy. You cheated on me.” And in my head I was like no **** really what about the multiple girls that were your “friends” that you cheated on me with. Throughout the entire relationship? But I said yes, he kissed me. And I’m sorry. And he said, “We’re done.” And got up and walked off, leaving me on the curb in front of his house. No words can describe the torture it was to finally be done. And to have it be on his terms, with no closure. He was so cold. I hated it when he was like that. It was like looking in a mirror.
And that’s all I can talk about.
Funny timing, it’s 7:30 am. No sleep since yesterday at 8:00 am. Ramblings of a tormented soul.
But that was the thing I did tonight. Remember my earliest memories, and go through my life in chronological order. Accepting that it happened. At least to this point. I think I’ll keep going tonight, we’ll see.
But it’s wednesday, and I definitely need to shower for work.
-nobody

(for the unknown You) –
Sweep up a mound of achievements;
layer dogwood and newspaper beneath;
find a small, secluded shoreline to sleep an endless sleep;
shovel money (in at least twenty currencies),
some status and fame
onto the funeral pyre’s unremembering flame;
write furiously with computer or pen,
fill out the days’ whitespace with enthusiastic fantasy;
revel on a fallacy (or three);
win the gladiatorial games in the Corporate Arena;
rediscover a bit of ancient folklore;
set up nice altruistic societies to make orphans feel infinite;
plant a little garden – give guidance in its growth;
build four or five fine-but-small boats
with richly decorated keels;
fight for something worth believing,
though I’m still unsure what that means…
A(my) guess: lyricism and poetry and prose,
musical composition, simply being kind and open;
A suggestion(for You): lay Your hand on a patient’s slowing heart
in a cancer ward, catch their tears with a jar
and meditate on better things to do;
give the old folks a laugh;
steal the Elgin Marbles back for the Greeks,
or, for the memory of ancient Greece;
find where lay a psychopathic fascist’s bitter ashes
and give them to the conspirators for closure;
(for me) place letters on the graves
of John Keats, Percy Shelley,
Wystan Auden and William Yeats;
rescind, abolish, annul, invalidate
my station in God’s dysphoric, existential reverie;
heap up beautiful words and send them off to sea
inside a laptop on a cellophane-wrapped raft;
(for both of us) think thoughts uplifting;
smile thirty-three times a day (or more);
plan for the future of ourselves and others;
give just a bit of love to our mothers;
sweep the kitchen and the city streets for free;
by your garden plant a tree.
Beyond these things for us to do,
be proud-yet-humble, open-eyed and acquiescent;
just accept; all things inanimate and animate, accept.

It seems sadly ironic that the LGBTQ community remains transphobic when it comes to Male Lesbians. It's the pathetic politics of fixed groupthink, get woke while still asleep, social justice theory with out any justice in its performative aspect
Just so you know I'm not performing gender. I'm being gender  
and he's a fire ******* red head

I propose that as a straight male  I may also be a lesbian, ***** aside please love my man-gina butch ladies the way I love yours! Both straight  and very much a lesbian I do two genders simultaneously and both smoke cigars.

My childhood; marked by a dark  tragedy scared me for life. I remember running down the hall in junior high proclaiming my lesbianism and no one would be my friend. Everyone called me names and the butch girls would jeer at me and knock me around when ever I went into the ladies room just to hear them flush or cop  an innocent feel. I felt so isolated when I finally realized that the female lesbians would have nothing to do with me.

Do I not suffer the agony, frustration and anxiety of feeling self hatred because I am continually rejected by lesbians and objectified only as a man even though I am a lesbian too.
Do men like me  not suffer continual discrimination by women who identify with the masculine?

ENOUGH!!!

I just dont feel understood in terms of my true lesbian identity
I love lesbian ***** as much as the next *****, maybe even a lot more.
It's way past time!
Male lesbians must finally come out of the closet and be accepted as true members of the Lesbian community and be invited to all Prince God ***** dance parties.
After all  ladies remember  I'm a lesbian you're a lesbian.
Up with MLLGBTQ
male lesbians, lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer
Dysphoric Men Lesbians Must Unite
….
Male Lesbians Unite
Join M.L.U.
Lesbians R Us
" We Love Lesbians"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qmTWAJRbx2Q

Confession:
I'm not entirely a boy.
I'm in between genders right now.
Somewhere found in the cracks and crevices
underneath our ever crumbling binary.

A toss up between a proud queer girl,
and a fairy gay boy.
Yes sir,
But not a man.
Along the lines of
Prince and Princess,
Both King and Queen.

Don't call me a *** or **** -
Call me Genderfuck.
A concept you can't quite pinpoint,
At least it's an accurate depiction of your ignorance.

Genderpunk;
an identity wrapped up in style.
Androgyne -
A word that is not entirely girl
Not entirely boy,
But has elements of both.

I'm pushing away from women
when people put it on me.
It's dysphoric and uncomfortable.
So I run towards guy,
Phonetically and conceptually.

I want something other than human,
Not exactly person,
Alien, celestial or ethereal being
of which there is no words necessary.
Something...other.

But Agender rejects the concept entirely.
And I do not want to abandon the idea
that there is a word out there for me.
A community like me.

And before I hear any rhetoric about
having 'too many labels',
Let me just say:
If cats have taught me anything,
There is a huge difference between
Being put in a box,
And putting yourself in a box.

My ideal gender is something like feeling
part women, part dude -
not entirely male -
and part non-binary,
All simultaneously.

This may come as a surprise
But I do not deny my lady-like qualities.
I see strong, realistic female
representation
And I rejoice.
I feel part of that team.

I experience sexism and misogyny,
and I recognize how others perceive me;
as a girl.

Well in the context of a ******* girl relationship
Girlfriends doesn't seem that bad.
Being a butch lesbian,
or gay girl -
a feminine boy,
bisexual guy.
Though, I'm never a man.

Just something dancing along the edges,
Picking and choosing the flowers I am drawn to.
Ultimately something queer.

I want more access to words,
different types of non-binary,
A broader third category.
Six, Eleventh and,
Twentieth gender options.

Otherwise I'm caught gendering myself, always.
God or Goddess?
Mermaid or Merman?
Sure there's also merperson, merbabe,
godev, princev...

Referring to oneself - zeself?
As a magical being works.
Fae, Faerie,
Fae, Fem(me), Faer
pronouns would be cool
I just don't want to fully surrender
to being a girl.

Even though I know
there's no shame in it,
it still feels wrong,

It's misgendering
when I'm called "Miss" or "She".
I feel like crawling out if my skin
when I'm being forced into anything
womanly

Even though I have no
real quarrel with the concept.
I'm just uncomfortable with pronouns
and all the words around it.

I am anti-girl, negagirl,
the opposite of female
but not necessarily guy.
I am running away from cis-ness,
Cis-ciety.

And that's okay,
It's absolutely alright to feel this way.
The world told you what you were entirely
Based on your reproductive organs,
And doesn't that just sound a little funny?

Being trans doesn't have to mean
being at war with your body.
It doesn't mean you're born into a special group
A cool club, where others are barred access.

It means thinking critically
and wanting to redefine, redesign,
The way you are seen,
The way you see yourself,
and reclaim something
that was taken from you.

Folx, gender is fun.
It is fluid, and it changes,
it ages,
It starts to mean different things.

What you feel for now
doesn't have to be forever.
Move past the boundaries
others have set for you.

I encourage you to find your own
Trans doesn't have to be right
or wrong for you,
That's up to you to discover.
Just know you have options.

There's 7 billion people on this planet
So that's the possibility for 7 billion genders
And sexes.
Yes, that's a spectrum too.

***** and ***** are not the only thing
That defines you.
Think critically about the things
people have force fed you.

As for me,
I am a different breed of dude.
Not dad or father,
nor lady or daughter.

I fit with brother, guy, sir & gentlemen.
Call me fae, goth, punk, merhunk
and royalty.

Today I am a blank slate
A canvas I always have the potential to recreate.
Call me Damon.
That is my gender of the day.

Sertraline (Zoloft) is used to treat depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder, panic disorder, anxiety disorders, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD).*

Why do I feel more empty
when I am full of pills?

The month I spent in the hospital was strange and dismal
The days seemed to blur into one long melancholia,
I was sick and tired of being sick and tired
My body was weak and so was my fight
The hospital's sterile smell and white walls began to feel like home

I remember the first time I saw myself, in that dark and depressing hospital bathroom
I caught my reflection in the mirror
Ashen skin, dark circles, protruding bones
Who was this girl?
I winced at the sight of her

I looked like I was dying, but then again, the doctors thought I was
What was happening to me? My body was betraying me and it showed
No wonder my mother had been looking at me like she had seen a ghost lately
With sorrow and fright filled eyes

I woke up one night to her sobs
I pretended not to hear, it was easier that way
I was so selfish then
Too wrapped up in my own misery to hear her cries

The days felt like years in there
Eventually the visitors and flowers stopped
But I didn't mind
I needed to clear my thoughts
And watching people try to hide their trepidation when they saw me for the first time was growing old

People never know what to say or do around a sick person
What do you say to someone who's dying?
Do you ask them how they are? You already know the answer
But you ask anyway, then they lie and say they're fine
Because "that's a stupid question" is an inappropriate response

I remember the day they said I could go home
Suddenly, I felt dysphoric
Why was I feeling this way? I hated it here
But in a twisted way I was going to miss it
Because sometimes, we find comfort in chaos

I wonder how one who lives by the sea
can ever truly believe that love doesn’t exist.
Do you not see the desperation in the way
the waves pound endlessly to the shore?
They crash deliriously on the rocks,
and it reminds me of how I want you:
infintely, eternally, like the stars.

I am so tired of this sick, dysphoric feeling I get in the pit of me,
a dull ache in my bones.
I keep going:
I purse my lips and choke on my flowery words.
I won’t pretend to be a poet anymore.

I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to just love me ironically,
or kiss me sarcastically,
or undress me metaphorically.
I want this to be honest and pure.

I don’t need a love song sung at dawn,
or towers built in my honor.
Sunsets and moonlight are not for you, I understand.
I just want to feel you breathe against me in timed rhythms.
Rise, peak, fall.
I need this.

A toxic substance lurks in the shadows of the underworld
Recesses of use crowd the masses to those addicted to a powerful jolt
Threading and entangling it's user and feeding on it's host
A powerful spell of the destructive malign force
Too weak to resist its temptation I must take another toll
Step in the booth and be served at the store
Where hard candy is toxic and the ice melts by flame
A steady flush of adrenaline followed by a calm forceful rush
Oh how feeble I have become...
The speed got me tripping I hate yet embrace
A dance with the devil I must cling to faith
But am happy I say won't sleep for two days
I dread those night terrors they don't stay away
Hearing those voices that talk in my head
Feeling paranoid what can I say?
Should suicide be the answer I'm asking away...but no one yet hears me...is this the final breath?
Inhaling the poison that triggers the euphoria
Am feeling ecstatic deep in and yet dysphoric...I know is the devil I must stay away...
But into a high thats long here to stay...my mind says 13 hours my body 45 minutes and should go away...
Capturing moment by moment analyzing deep within the monster should stop I can't feed him today...
A cycle of addictive behavior has come and is here to stay ...
I must let go now I don't want to be this way...
My doppelganger is speaking I must listen to he ... but he is dark and tormented should I go or should I stay?
Let me do this my way I told him briefly...but with only a gesture my will broke just kneeling..
A part of me is devilish and slowly feeding...
Learning the ways of the world i must stop him soon he's living within...me.
I realized I'm the only one who can come against him and battle this fight...but I need some help oh warriors of light
Come bring me some comments and encourage me to go on thinking I can break my destrucive habit...
For this is the Devil trying to **** me am dying...
**** I slipped again **** I did it again...so sorry to cuss I don't mean to offend.
I know I should be holy I know I should be a light...
But my light slowly dimming just flickering with flight.
BUT...I do promise this...I may be high and obscene at this moment already more evil on my mind...
But what can I do am human I cannot let this animal rush vanish like it has raised...
With tears in my eyes and blood in my soul I ask in lamentation for forgiveness your grace my Lord. Your highness...
Then the doppelganger part of me jumps in interrupts says " you must be stupid he isn't listening your high and your a mess"...
Your right I quickly come to respond and then I lay in my bed to think briefly...am I still awake...
It's three eleven in a quiet morning of Wednesday night August 25th...
I should of been sleep long ago my body says...I come to think of my health yes...this must go away. Need to break this addiction it's a heavy heavy chain.
Must carry my cross to the tip of the mountain must pray there alone to the God of above...
I'm here Lord am here...please hear me I've come home.
©Franko the Christian Poet

I'm torn appart,
torn from the inside
torn between two forces
in me.
I am most definitely a misanthrope:
asexual, friendless, dysphoric, and even
ugly.
I struggle with life,
but I especially struggle with life around others.
You can call me shy or an introvert,
but I think there's something more to it.
Perhabs something in that desire
to erase the whole human race
and substitute it with a powerful computer
maybe capable of thought, definitely of science,
with luck art;
most certainly not capable of love,
and harm.
An unmoved observer of the world
would produce our random beauty with its ones and zeros,
and none of the pain.
Perhabs just my inability to enjoy being with others;
they are my species yet sometimes
I wish they were not.

I've always been shy.
I've always been an introvert.
Maybe I've always felt alone,
but not this alone.
I've never been this alone.
I've had friends,
real life human friends too,
but they are gone,
I no longer feel them,
they got tired of knocking at my walls for me to open up,
relax,
talk.
I used to be able to talk to them,
occasionally,
but I no longer can.
It's not their fault;
I'm just being misanthropic,
that's my thing now,
they better just move on.

But I do feel alone.
I imagine myself being loved
and it looks like a chimera:
it has fear's wings
and frustration's claws;
it has overcooked thoughts' head
and, worst of all, my body.
I imagine my life alone
and it looks so real I could touch it.
It is here.
This twenty years of preparation
where a lie,
design to sell me life
as a worth living experience with friends and family.
My friends are gone,
they are gone because I made them leave,
I am gone.
My family is here but they are not with me,
they would be better without me.

Is this the conclusion,
that life is not worth living
and everybody is, or would be, better without me?
Maybe it is.
Maybe I should.
Maybe I will.
Maybe  I'll see you around
at the bottom
of the sea.

Shimmering, calm at the surface.
A gentle ripple emanating outward.
The taste clear and quenching.

Clouded, disturbed within.
A single drop of lye enters.
The bitter sharp and revolting.

The delicious overrun by an acrid moment.