#sadkidhours

[the-worryin-librarian]

she / her / she / her / she / her

when did this start to feel jagged

and how do I undo it?

I was fine for so long— until I wasn’t

until I had everything and time enough to think

I want to go back;

please, change me into something new

can I learn not to want it?

I said as much when I puked on my sneakers:

I want to be palatable and lovable and easy

to not feel like a pacing animal

and I know that this — that you — could be different

but coming out for me has always been hurt

is always rejection from the people I love the most

is it worth the scars and

how do I know and

what’s a pound of flesh weigh, again?

[pluto-spacekid]

The Others

Boys don’t cry, but girls do. What about the others? 

The pain isn’t physical, that’s just the side effects. Am I supposed to be content living in someone else’s body? I want to reach out for help, but I don’t in fear of becoming the next toxic friend we’re trying to cut off. I guess I’m fucked up.

  I know what they say behind closed doors. That I’m confused. A dyke. Being trendy. I’M NOT. There is no place in society for the others. No place in my home for me. Inquiry turns to yelling and tears. My spirit is broken, their egos inflated. 

Betrayed by the people I thought were on my side. Maybe I’m just bitter and jaded but I don’t trust them as much as I used to. Maybe it’s normal to feel these things. Or maybe I’m as unstable as she is. But I’ll keep it locked away so I don’t get cut off like she did. 

I’ll get over it. Because I’m supposed to. I’m a good kid that doesn’t cause a fuss for this nuclear family. Disappointment is a rough road to travel, though I walk down it often. 

Pink or blue. Vagina or penis. Male or Female. Everything is so either/or. Why not neither? Why not both? 

I get misgendered and lectured. In the morning it will be “fine”. I’ll play along.

 I feel alienated when I’m conscious. Some days are better than others, but those are few and far between. I want to dress how I want and not have a label smacked on me. I am an other and nothing else. Most people can’t look past the curves and poisonous estrogen though. 

Too young. Too dumb. Too liberal. That’s all I hear. Maybe I’m just too alive.

[the-worryin-librarian]

stop exaggerating

when we were in Chicago in 2013 I got turned around

and walked for seven minutes in the wrong direction

and in a panic I apologized

please don’t be mad at me

and you smiled patiently

and said with all the softness in your heart:

it’s okay, we’ll figure it out.

now in the car

at the red light

on the way to work you ask me

how tall does our magnolia tree grow?

and when I say I don’t know

you reply, frustrated,

what do you mean?

how could you not?

and I’m not sure how in those years

our words got so turned around

that they come out swinging

I’d like to say that I don’t know

how I hardened your soft heart,

but what do I mean?

how could I not?