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Literature Text
You say that I'm a disease,
that I'm confused,
or that I'm looking for attention.
You call me a dyke,
a faggot, butch,
or even "it."
You tell me to accept that I'm a girl,
to get out of this "phase,"
and that I'm not who you knew.
You yell at me when I try to use the restroom,
when I'm walking down the street,
or when I go to school.
Is there a safe place for me?
I'm beginning to think not.
Not in school, at home, or in public.
I'd like to know why you hate me so much,
and why you tried to kill me.
You know, when you tried to hit me with your car.
Are you mad I didn't die?
Pissed I jumped out of the way?
If so, please tell me why.
I never did anything to you.
I don't know your name,
and you don't know mine.
You don't know anything about me,
except that I'm different,
from the other guys, at least.
Yes, I have breasts.
It's true that I get a period.
I also hate it all.
Believe me, I'd kill my top layer, too,
if given the chance.
It isn't me at all.
There's more to me,
I promise.
You just can't see it by looking at me.
I love Edgar Allen Poe,
and paintings of cityscapes,
and the smell of salty sea air.
I like to play baseball,
I write,
and I can carry a decent tune.
I love my 8 younger siblings
with all my heart,
and would treat my girl like a princess.
You don't even bother to get to know me though,
because all that matters to you
is that I'm transgendered.
Do you think I chose this?
That I enjoy being trapped in a body
that isn't even mine?
My ribs are crushed daily,
my body encased in tight spandex,
just so I can look like me.
I didn't choose this.
So why the attacks,
both emotional and physical?
It just proves more and more
how lost you are
having to condemn me to feel better about yourself.
You're scared of me,
and you hate me,
but at least I know who I am.
that I'm confused,
or that I'm looking for attention.
You call me a dyke,
a faggot, butch,
or even "it."
You tell me to accept that I'm a girl,
to get out of this "phase,"
and that I'm not who you knew.
You yell at me when I try to use the restroom,
when I'm walking down the street,
or when I go to school.
Is there a safe place for me?
I'm beginning to think not.
Not in school, at home, or in public.
I'd like to know why you hate me so much,
and why you tried to kill me.
You know, when you tried to hit me with your car.
Are you mad I didn't die?
Pissed I jumped out of the way?
If so, please tell me why.
I never did anything to you.
I don't know your name,
and you don't know mine.
You don't know anything about me,
except that I'm different,
from the other guys, at least.
Yes, I have breasts.
It's true that I get a period.
I also hate it all.
Believe me, I'd kill my top layer, too,
if given the chance.
It isn't me at all.
There's more to me,
I promise.
You just can't see it by looking at me.
I love Edgar Allen Poe,
and paintings of cityscapes,
and the smell of salty sea air.
I like to play baseball,
I write,
and I can carry a decent tune.
I love my 8 younger siblings
with all my heart,
and would treat my girl like a princess.
You don't even bother to get to know me though,
because all that matters to you
is that I'm transgendered.
Do you think I chose this?
That I enjoy being trapped in a body
that isn't even mine?
My ribs are crushed daily,
my body encased in tight spandex,
just so I can look like me.
I didn't choose this.
So why the attacks,
both emotional and physical?
It just proves more and more
how lost you are
having to condemn me to feel better about yourself.
You're scared of me,
and you hate me,
but at least I know who I am.
Literature
Make me a man
Every night when I go to bed,
with the same painful thought inside my head.
I wish and wish it over again,
Please make me like those normal men.
Why do I have this birth defect?
I ask a god that isn't here,
Because I can't ask anyone else,
There is too much that I fear.
I stare down at mounds upon my chest,
And feel the empty space,
I never was not once a girl,
It's boyhood that I chase.
But when I'm brave and tell someone,
Of my future plan,
I won't be a girl, or even a boy,
I will be a man.
Literature
Transgender poem.
I hate this name.
I hate this body.
I hate these hips.
I hate these breasts.
I hate the reflection.
I hate being in the closet.
I hate living 2 different lives.
I hate having to go into girls bathrooms.
I hate having to change in the girl's locker room.
I hate having to look at my name on school work.
I hate meeting new people.
I hate hearing 'she' and 'her'.
I hate trying to explain to people.
I hate feeling so depressed.
I hate being the 'boyish girl'.
I hate not being able to wear my boxers because I'm afraid people will ask questions when I'm in the locker room.
I hate being so awkward.
I hate getting undressed.
I hate m
Literature
Confessions of a Transman
I look down every morning to see these two monsters protruding from my ribcage. As a child, they had not existed, but they grow on my body as I get taller, along with half of the human race. My lungs have grown two fleshy eyes that I am always aware of and never able to escape. Many find these attractive, desirable even. From the time I was told I had to harness them, I could feel a dark spot flare inside of me. It was something that elongated itself along my spine and kept growing until I felt it hit my pelvic wall. Bulges on my torso that are hard to hide and an unnecessary space between my legs. As if something else just had to belo
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This could be described as a rant in stanzas. Yes, someone actually tried to run me over with their car for being transgendered. This adresses all the complete bullshit I face day to day.
© 2013 - 2024 CantBuySincerity
Comments19
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I am against hurting or killing you.
But there also is no need to hide your breasts.
You are physicaly female.
All physicaly female people have them.
The proper term may be that you are more ADULT then they are!
But there also is no need to hide your breasts.
You are physicaly female.
All physicaly female people have them.
The proper term may be that you are more ADULT then they are!