I walk the halls and glance at everyone I see,
The girls who are hurrying to the bathroom to fix their makeup,
And the boys who check them out as they walk by.

Is there anyone else here who can't go to the bathroom, because I swear to God just the thought of it gives me a small panic attack.
Is there anyone else here who looks down and is disappointed everyday because I am small, chesty and my face is far too round.

I never check out the girls, nor do I run to the bathroom to fix myself,
I walk and look at how much I wish I was one of the guys,
Flat chested, tall, lean and not having to wake up 5 extra minutes to put on a binder.
Never hating that their voice along with their round face will have others calling them "She" for their whole life.

Never will they come home with aching ribs,
and feel the stab of being misgendered.
Never will they be told "but you still look like a girl,"
Even though you are trying so hard that you feel your mind wearing thin.
Why can't I just be what they want me to be?

I've been painted pink the instant the doctors
Wiped me of red.
I looked like the boys I knew - our differences a
Color palette provided by Mommy and Daddy.
I was their little girl, their princess who wished
Her hair would stop growing,
Lest she be locked in a stone tower.
I didn't mind the dress so much then,
Not when it was the only difference between me
And them.

Magic mirror before me, is wrong all I'll ever be?
I shut my eyes, unable to stand my body bare.
My knight, your skin simply is not right.
I've read the mirror never lies.

Mommy and Daddy are yelling
About my butch haircut.
Our little girl the ****, they say.
I did it myself.
Mommy still buys me dresses,
Daddy tells her to spend the money on
Therapy instead.
Daddy asks about boyfriends,
Mommy tells him I don't have any because I
Hide my *******.
I tell them I'm all wrong.
They agree.
We're talking about two different things.

I don't change for gym anymore.
The girls are secretly relieved I won't be there
To cast a wandering eye in their soft bodies.
I'm relieved I won't be in the wrong locker room.

Mommy and Daddy don't like me
Telling them who I am.
I've finally found my way out of the tower and
The king and queen are upset because their
Princess never made it home, just the knight.
My little girl, Mommy cries.
I follow the point of Daddy's finger to the door
Until I'm on a bus bound for somewhere else.

I shift from Pangea into separate pieces.
Finally I have space to breathe.
Needles, knives, pills bend my body to my will -
It took Michelangelo three years to build David.

Mommy and Daddy believe me to be
A delivery man. They are expecting to sign off
On a television set, yet when they see me
Idle in the doorframe there is a hesitance, a hope.
But most of all there is silence.
Mommy cannot speak, her hand curls like a gasp
Around her mouth.
Daddy begins to cry, his eyes pale and blue.
I am hugged.
They don't say sorry, but I hear then whisper.
My little boy, they say. My little boy.

Dysphoria, it wraps and weaves but plunges me like a knife,
Dysphoria, it's like a big useless chest binder that tightens around your self-esteem.
Dysphoria, It is my best friend, but I smile in joy when it briefly leaves.
Dysphoria, My thighs, my chest, my hair, my jaw, my eyes and my smile write 'Her' 'She' 'Female' Girl'.

                                  Dysphoria, I'm always alone.

I am male
I am human
the word “Girl” is like getting stabbed in the chest.

Getting called a girl
a lady
a female
but no, I am male.

People don't understand the pain of dysphoria
they don't understand the pain,
getting called the wrong name
or the wrong gender.

People say it’s
a phase
it’s a choice,
but they will never understand,
I was born this way.

I can't change who I am and I don't want to
I am transgender
I am human
I am proud.

i thought that discovering who i was
would come as a relief.
i thought that (as foolish as it was) i would live
in a world of bright lights and love,
acceptance and home.
but no.
it came in the form of a trial of the heart, held by the conscience.
it came in the form of hatred and fear,
towards myself and others.
it came with a world of danger,
a world pitted against my being.
it came with guilt,
convulsing inside me, giving me bad posture.
it came in the blood running down my
arms, my legs
it came with pain.
it was Pandora's box: The Sequel
and in the place of hope was joy.
but I can't allow myself to feel that yet.

He wrote
inscripted objects
Into my eye

He bountied
For affection
One not
Likely met

She screamed
While sufficating
Her authenticity

He shouted
Yea she'll come back

She wore her wedding gown
Into the dessert
And was found drowned

He wrote
Inscripted objects
Into my eye

The novels now
A mystery
My Life
Total chaos
With a smile

Because he's no
Longer with me
I cry my left eye out

If i were a boy
I wouldn't have to hurt
Do all the things i've always wanted
And don't even have to get judged

If i didn't have to be her
I wouldn't feel so weird
I could take my shirt off and go swimming
But now i have to suffer with her

If i could be him
I would hang with the guys
But now i sit here and wonder why
That i have to be one of a kind

He was never your daughter,
not since the day he was born.
He was an identical twin to his sister, sure,
but your daughter? No.

I am dating your daughter, sir.
He has an assortment of ways to please me.
I love him, and he knows it;
he orders his ***** online to please me.

He was never your daughter.
Couldn't you tell from the way he looked
awkward in dresses?
The way he always cut his hair short?

He was never your daughter;
I am dating your daughter, sir;
but he is not, never was, a sister
to the brother who just wanted a hug.

"She feels like she's wearing the wrong decoration;
how would you like it if I put you
in a dress and paraded you around
in front of your friends?"

He was never your daughter, ma'am,
but you knew it.
He is not a lesbian, he's something different.
He is not your daughter, any more.

Certainly we all know
he wears things to hide his *******.
And while I know what's down there in his pants
he won't let me see it.

He was never your daughter,
but I knew that.
I knew when he said, "FtM,"
that he was something different,

something special.

"I want to be a pelican
and have a bag for a face."
"Baby, baby, baby."
"Where's my ****?"

I've spent a month with your daughter,
and he cannot wait to tell it to your face
that he's moving out.

When he was thirteen,
he wrote another
and named it "Scared"
because that's how he felt.
His body was changing
and he didn't like it.

When he was Fifteen,
he wrote a different poem
and named it "Knowledge"
because that's what he gained.
He knew what was wrong,
so he told them his new name.

When he was eighteen,
he wrote a new one
and named it "Ghost"
because that's what he was.
Nobody respected him,
his pronouns were never heard.

What it’s like the be transgender (FtM)
It’s more than wanting to change your body, more than being insecure.
It’s looking at yourself in the mirror and feeling less manly and masculine than you look.
It’s days where you look like a man and days where you look like a girl.
It’s almost breaking your ribs from using ace bandages.
Putting a sock in your pants just to look like a boy when you go to the store.
It’s cutting your hair short so you look more masculine.
It’s wondering if anybody will love you for what’s between your legs before surgery.
It’s dreaming and begging to God to change you into the man you are overnight.
It’s looking at magazines and crying because you know you’ll have to pay thousands of dollars to cut off what’s on your chest.
It’s being a child and wanting to die because you’re scared of what people will think of you,
That is just a little taste of what it’s like to be transgender.

Here’s the story
of five kids.
Three girls
and one boy.
And a lonely child
who’s heart I broke.

Finally, we get to the fifth.
An FTM kid.
They draw and write.
But they’re on here, too.
I don’t want them to find out.

I’ve said so much to hurt them.
All of us have said so much,
whether we meant it or not.
So, they closed themself
off from everyone.
Everyone in real life.

I…
can’t say anymore.
But, babe, if you see this…
I’m so sorry.

I swore I’d protect you and I hurt you.
I swore I’d get better and I couldn’t.
I swore I’d help you and I made things worse.
I swore I’d listen and I couldn’t take it.
I swore I loved you and I do.
I swore I wouldn’t let you fall and I pushed you off the cliff.

dont mind me in my predicament, steer clear
just waiting for the evident fear here
of the confinement
to a prison for
one.

mama said ill regret it in a year or so
but to her i say at least thats a year of my
life to know
that i wont have to wake up
wanting to shed this skin.

my thoughts are filthy, shallow, obsessed,
theres not a day goes by where im not lessened
by the urge to destroy
and snip and cut and bleed.

and so i lay and wallow, grieved,
upon my throne of mutiny
suckling a fantasy of
FTM.

holding on to hope that it will
end.

2020.


Hell, what do I do now?

Say that it's been a year since I started slitting my wrists?

Sure.


Hi, I'm Beau,

I'm 13, FTM transgender. And this month, last year, I started to slowly **** myself. The end. Happy new year.