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

That guy, that boy, that man.
The words roll round my head,
Like a big bingo cage,
Full of thin razor blades.

Lake-wet and found forgiving,
patch-work body and pasture-raised pleasure,
rolling in the grass and basking in
bare-skinned clarity.
They were right, you are a fairy.

Water filled to the brim, may I drink from your fountain,
may I toss my pennies in,
and is a wish like a prayer,
or should I save my change for rain?
Filling puddles like copper lakes,
putting a snake in for Heaven's sake,
splitting my own rib and calling it mate.

When I first saw you it was just your reflection,
you caught my attention, doubling your beauty with your liquid presence.
I asked if I could come in and take a dip in your drip,
you nymphaeum of bliss,
and you said "Yes, yes but not yet.",
like the breath we share before a kiss,
like the moment before sunset,
like the bed unmade around our shapes,
like the ripples our forms in this pool radiate.

I must grow gills because you took the breath right out of my lungs.

Love me, Pisces, Venus smiles for us.

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.

Gender was a stupid creation

Who decided just because I have, well...
Certain bits
That it means I should wear a skirt?
Or a dress?
I mean what does it matter?
Why aren’t we just all the same?
I don’t want to choose
Because getting it wrong
Means doing again...

In my hands I hold a pen, not a needle, but a pen.
Oh how I wish it were the needle.
Both hold the expression to that which I hold dearly.
For it's not just a pen or a needle that I hold;
It is me!