Voices
Voices
It lingers there in the back of my mind, dormant, dark, so far from alone, poisoning me from the inside out, her voice, his, in the back of my head. Then mine. It slithers, hidden, through the back of my mind, blood, cuts, burns, fill me up inside, spilling through the cracks of my skin, death's voice, mine, in the back of my head. Then theirs. It crowds, insistent, in the back of my mind, hatred, abuse, all bundled as one, tearing me from the place I call safe, their voices, all, in the back of my head.
This poem is about my experience being trans in a household where being out could be potentially unsafe, and hearing people around me that are meant to protect, nurture and support me insult and make fun of people like me. It talks about bad coping mechanism, and how when I try to escape online to people who accept and understand me, despite having no idea who I am, there are always bigots there to insult and degrade me for something I have no choice over. That and given the current situation in the UK, I think all us trans and LGBTQIAP+ people could do with a break, soooo yeah! Feel free to vent in the comment, but please be kind. Now more than ever, we must stick together. Stay safe out there! 🏳️⚧️🏳️🌈♥️
More Posts from Thefrogmeister and Others
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I am so bloody confused istg-
TARDIS dragons
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Please Tumblr I beg of thee
I Am Not Her
I am not Her. Her with Her hips and Her chest and Her hair, with Her voice and Her face and all that's "down there". Comfortable, happy, with all who She is, who is proud to buy bras, with pads as She grows, Not checking Her calendar like She's on death row, Not watching the waiter, will they call Her "Sir"? Will Her friends use His name or insist He is Her? No, I am not Her, happy and free, I am trapped, I am scared, why can't I break free? Peel off my skin and expose what's inside, the flatness, the chest hair, a bulge in my jeans. But I CAN'T, so I hide in this ill fitting suit, that tightens and squeezes as the waiter says "Miss". I am Him with His shoulders, His chest and His hair, with His voice and His face and all that's "down there". So I hope and I hide in this ill fitting suit, Him who is trapped, pulled down by twin weights, Him with His boxers and a shaver with time, Counting the minutes 'till I can say He, I am Him, I am Them, happy and free. But still my suit blocks the light to my skin underneath, hiding from sight the Boy who is me. I am Him, I am Them.
And I.
Am.
Not.
Her.
Just a small poem about my experience with gender dysphoria I wrote in like 20 mins. I am boyfluidflux, and use he/they/it and most other neopronouns. Feel free to leave constructive criticism, and to those who feel this, I'm sorry society has trapped you like it traps me. Have a good day, peeps, take care!!! 🏳️⚧️🏳️🌈
HOLD UP HOW WAS I NOT AWARE OF THIS
