i tried to write a poem
i've been trying for a while
to write the ways in which you always
seem to make me smile

i've tried to tell our stories
through the medium of rhyme
but every time i start to type
the words fall out of time

it's always been so simple
i can write when i feel wrong
but it all seems so unnatural
now i feel like i belong

i don't think i can do it
'cause i don't know where to start
so if i see you in my poems
it will mean you broke my heart.

I.
You bleed in places boys are never meant to bleed;
You want to make yourself bleed in more places because of it.

II.
There will be places on your body that are no longer for touching.
They mean nothing to you, but the nerve-endings interaction with another hand will let you know they’re real.
They cannot be real.

III.
You will hear love songs, and you will want to rip your own lungs out in your fist.
They give you enough trouble anyways.

IV.
You never do rip your lungs out.
You cannot fit your fingers down your throat, and your ribs are too strong for your too small hands to break.
You cough when it’s cold out and laughing has hurt for months.

V.
You tell people that you reach out to them when you need to.
You reach out to them on good days.
You do not tell them that the days on which you cannot even form the words to ask for their help are they days you need it, and you do not expect them to know this.

VI.
You talk about escaping like it’s going to fix things.
You think about escaping as though it means ripping open your skin and walking away from it.

VII.
You think about what is wrong with you and you conclude you are unlovable.
The statement is not untrue.
You will hold up your own broken bones as proof.

VIII.
You sit in the bath for three hours and you look at yourself and you look at the ceiling.
You do not punch the walls anymore; it was loud and someone asked about the slamming.

IX.
You put your own hands around your neck for hours but you never tighten them.
You do not want to be disappointed in their lack of strength.

X.
There will be fingernail marks across your chest for a few days.
You will not see them, no one will see them.
No one wants to see that, and you cannot bear to look.

We're stuck within these bodies that we're dying to change
We are ashamed because we want to be different

Modified.

We cannot escape being called by "her" or "him"
It may not seem like much, but titles matter,
As do appearances.

"I want to be this", I say
"But you're not that." Society barks

That.

We crave to be that,
The opposite of "who we are"
We're stuck, truley
We feel as if we can't escape this, containment,
This restriction,
This prohibition.

That defines us.

We didn't choose to be WHO we are,
We didn't get a choice to become WHAT we are.

I am a "he".
I am a "her".

We are confined to be one gender, "ourselves"

How can we be ourselves if our looks are so decieving?
Are we not judged by our outskirts?

I want to be "that", On the outside
I already am, on the inside

Though, I'm jammed,
Wedged,
Lodged,
Embedded,
Fixed.

We linger in these false corpses
They burn at our courage and tear at our hearts
They puncture and pierce and leave scars and bruises in our souls
Because we cannot run from ourselves.

When society is against us
We remain still
Immovable
What can we do if our skin is a lie?

I am a "he" on the inside, a "she" on the outside
I am a "she" on the inside, a "he" on the outside

I can't escape alone.

I think I'm trapped

What made someone fall in love with you is often what made them fall out of love with you.