Panpolyfluid

Poems that fit on a phone screen (width wise). All poems are based on experience.

[panpolyfluid]

Busy, busy, busy

That’s all I seem to be

Each day more work, more tasks to do

Too many things for me

But somehow, I get them done

And quite exceptionally,

But I wonder if I’ll ever have fun,

If I’ll ever feel truly free.

Even when I’ve done my duty,

Each deadline satisfied,

Rest never finds me. This fruit

Eternally denied.

Even pleasure becomes work,

A hobby, a routine.

I think I need some sort of jerk

From forces yet unseen,

To pry me from my expectations

Of endless tasks to do,

And bring to me the lost sensations

Of excitement and joy anew.

[panpolyfluid]

Tw self-harm

It started innocently

A nervous habit

Biting fingernails

Every so often

Not having anything better to do

It grew more regular

A public habit

Trimming with teeth

At least twice a day

Out of some strange compulsion.

I tried to repress it

A persistent habit

Toenails came next

About once a week

My body contorting to satisfy my need.

It spread even further

A bloody habit

Biting skin off my fingers

When the nails weren’t enough

Letting myself dwell in the pain.

It got out of hand

A consuming habit

Scratching the nape of my neck

Until I started to bleed

Never letting that hidden scab heal.

It keeps me awake

A painful habit

Trying to sleep

While my fingers and neck

Cry out for help and time to heal.

It doesn’t relent

A cursed habit

Torturing myself

Day after day

Feeling every perceived inadequacy

Eat away at me

As pain

And blood

And scab tissue stuck in my hair

Tearing myself down

As I tell myself to stop

But I can’t.

I’m trapped in this cycle of self-abuse

And I can’t escape on my own.

[panpolyfluid]

Is it cold in here?

Or is it just me?

Why is the only room with a

Comfortable temperature the bathroom,

The small, well heated, well insulated

Bathroom?

And why do I have to spend 5 minutes

Every morning

Warming up my clothes?

Am I so poorly insulated

I wear a jacket and sweatpants all year?

Why can’t I be productive?

Is this lack of energy normal?

Is a normal day of school

Supposed to consist of

Staring blankly at a board

Combined with finding distractions?

A day in which I

Struggle to find

The will to do anything

After lunch?

Why can’t I eat a reasonable portion?

Why do I go from starving to overstuffed

Within 250 Calories?

What causes my feelings of sickness

Every time I eat a meal more than

500 Calories.

Why is my instinct to drink when I’m hungry?

Why does my body tell me to hydrate first,

Saturate later,

Eat enough never?

How come I’ve been underweight

My whole life?

Never climbing out of the

Fifth percentile,

How does someone never reach

120 pounds?

Why are my ribs still visible,

My spine making prominent bumps,

My skin stretched around

My clavicles, so it requires less skin

For them to be outside than in?

Why is my waist circumference

7 inches less than my hips?

Why do I keep hearing that I’m beautiful?

That I have every girl’s ideal proportions?

That I’m lucky to have my body?

Because nobody taught me about

Eating Disorders

Until it was too late.

Because I was born a man.

Because society decided that

Beauty is more valuable than health.

And no one thought to warn

The trans women.

[panpolyfluid]

Why do I just want to cry?

What has gone so wrong today

That I can’t help but hide away,

Tears gently rolling down my face

As I curl up in a hidden place.

My sadness welling up inside,

My emotions I am forced to hide,

For I don’t know what I would say

If someone asked if I’m okay.

I’ve gotten scared of going out,

So I sit, lonely, in my room

When all I want to do is shout

For help. I can’t. It’ll be my doom.

So my mind tells me again and again

Isolation will serve me well.

But help is there, beyond the pane

Of the window to my mental cell.

I am lost, yet I know where I am.

I am trapped, yet I know how to escape.

I am alone, yet I’m surrounded by friends.

I just need the courage to fail.

[panpolyfluid]

Poetry

Poetry can be fun to write-

Often I restrict myself to a meter for fun

Even using a rhyme scheme sometimes or

Maybe a neat little acrostic.

But when my verse becomes free and I'm just writing my thoughts-

That's when you know that I'm being serious.

I'm saying what's on my mind without any extra rules.

Just words.

Emotions.

Thoughts.

My deepest concerns flowing from the page.

To be read by someone, someday.

Maybe.