Disembodied voices follow you,

Cracked lips rasping out desperate pleas for freedom.

Decaying hands grab at me, fingernails grazing my back.

As we walk through this garden of sin I think of a time when there was still hope,

A time when I didn't look as sick as the corpses.

I fear though, that this gruesome mascarade will go on forever,

I will blindly follow you,

Because you know there is a way out.

You know.

I will silently, slowly, dig my own grave,

Because your face faltered, because the glimmer of hope in your eye is noticeably dimmer.

(This was a very slightly tweaked version of a shitty poem I wrote a couple months ago)

I'm growing up in a tourism city. i'm growing up in a city where I pass groups of homeless people living in tents under the overpass on my way to school. I'm growing up in a city where my parents are scared to let me walk around my neighborhood alone because I might get shot. I'm growing up in a city where people only really give a shit about the notable places, the places tourists go to. Where half the city looks like it still hasn't recovered from Katrina (among other hurricanes). Don't get me wrong either, there's plenty of reasons I love living here. There's a unique punk scene for one. My best memories are all moshing at some show where music was blasting so loud I couldn't hear shit the next day, or sitting in a circle with my older brother and his friends when the shows got lame, while they all got high and cracked jokes. that's sort of part of the unadvertised part of the city though, the part tourists don't fucking go to. The good parts. I think maybe that's why they're the good parts though, they haven't been genercized to the point of being incredibly boring. I almost wish I was in a small town sometimes, one where your not expected to be a jolly local with a thick Cajun(and or southern) accent, who's ready to tell you some ghost story about the french quarter, or tell you to try the fucking beignets.

No thanks to the society that raised me to hate myself,

and no thanks to the old politics dudes who wanna take away my bodily autonomy,

which of course they're qualified to decide.

No thanks to the kids that whispered "transgender whore" and "faggot" behind my back in 7th grade and then giggled until they fucking fell over.

No thanks to the intoxicated man who cursed me out in front of the school in 5th grade,

and No thanks to the goddamn old ladies who thought I dressed like a slut.

I'm not going to be thanking the lord, or any of those people who made a couple years of my life a living hell this thanksgiving.

I'm going to thank the planned parenthood workers who get riots outside of their fucking workplaces everyday, cause they do good work.

I'm going to thank the people who care more about trans kids having decent mental health and proper healthcare then them being "to young to know" or "indoctrinated".

I'm going to thank the hand full of good people left in this shit hole we call home.

For now at least, we’ll use pseudonyms

And roam free.

We’ll pick petunias, and frolic through fields.

Personify that little voice in our heads and rationalize its whispers.

Muse about the primroses, and tulips, and buttercups, and jasmin,

And all manner of colorful ideas.

This eternal earth.

When we’ll all be gone and dead the flowers will be here

Swaying. steadfast and rooted,

spreading their seed on the whispers of the wind.

Digging deep into the soil, deeper than we ever could

We’ll speak in tongues,

And chant arbitrary things,

Because surely the flowers don't care how logical our colloquies are.

It's dim, not so dark that I can't see, but everything is dark. There's dust on the drapes, and art on the walls. not the professional- looking sort of art though, just a shit ton of manic looking sketches, and lists and little papers, (supposedly ones with any sort of sentimental value). A hand full of photo strips too, which maybe bring a more overpowering sense of nostalgia than I'd like. The curtains have pins, enamel pins, and safety pins, and band pins, and homemade ones. There's yellowy light creeping in from the crack under the door, and music blaring.

The sun dips below, one last time.

Her gaze slides over to me.

Like before, but different.

Our 2 and ½ month masquerade has come to a close;

We’ll swim less, and love less, and sleep less.

Sweaty, shitty, music festivals won’t nearly kill us.

Not for another 10 months.

We won’t blare Pixies And Queen From the car speakers

Till our eardrums bleed

And the neighbors think we have a death wish.

Now it's just pencil shavings

And Plath poems.

Fucking homophobia in the american school system. It's stifling. It isn't said enough that minorities and oppressed peoples shouldn't be put against each other like rabid dogs. Speaking from personal experience, the majority of (american middle/ high schools) schools don't give two shits if students are racist, or homophobic or incredibly hate full as long as its mildly discreet. Straight, cisgender people could say the F slur all they please, as long as its not directly in front of a supervisor/teacher. I (a transgender queer person) could very well have my rights striped away from me, and my peers would make a meme about it.

Understanding (and maybe even an ounce of compassion) towards queer youth is ideal, but acceptance is the bare minimum. It is legitimately baffling to me, why some are so dead set on hatred, and discrimination, and making LGBTQIA+ youth (specifically trans folks) feel so horrible. Why some people go so far out of their way to alienate and taunt queer children just trying to exist. At some point, it becomes to fucking much though. These people have feelings and shit.

awake my dear friend,

I don't understand you yet

but you've got my blood

we'll buy you tiny shoes,

to fill your little heart with joy,

empty our pockets

your eye shine is less

towards me, more towards them,

moving boxes now.

badly tied nooses,

a hospital trip, red lights

you wanted to see them.

hair is greying now,

your newest kin wail loudest,

the world will quiet soon.