Transgender Awareness Week Poetry

A Day Comes

A day comes when it will all be over

The struggle will be over

The pain and suffering will all come to fruition

The last cent is spent

The last pill taken

The last surgery done

And I will just live

I wake up not to a horrorshow, but just

Me

I wake up and I don’t have to do anything

A reminder on my phone tells me that my next injection is in 3 days

And that is it

I live

I wake up

I eat

I work

I sleep

All of it will be worth it

All of it will be in the past

I have become so wrapped up in this journey that I worry

That I have lost the forest for the trees

That I have focused so much on the journey that I have lost sight of the destination

I say that it is not just about the destination, it’s about the journey

But have I made too much of it about the journey and not the destination?

Transitions

A long time it was, since it all happened

The lockdown started, and we didn’t come back

176 days since one door closed, sealing him back there

121 days since the next opened, letting her loose

The doors propped him up, and held her back there

Known to many, but knowing fewer

Finding needles in a haystack, to know

It was over, we were out, to here

And so she dove into it, becoming

A free fall into the future, away

Here I became me, known and knowing

We became she and he stayed back there, far

The Duality

Me and him

Me and you

Both exist/ed, yes

Both legitimate

But only one true being

Where do I end and you begin?

We are like the infinity of decimals between every single number

You couldn’t take it and you burned

I was what was left behind

I am still living in your shadow

Please go away

All the stars

All the stars

And all the me

Reforge myself

Through the hellfire

Through the pain

From the first moment

I could tell something was different

Was wrong

It was inevitable

I could hide it

Project it

Can it up and put it away

But there was only way this could end

With

It

All

Falling

Apart

Now I pick up my graph paper

And ready my compass

Pick through the wreckage

And clear the lot

Figure out what I want there

Not what they think I should have

But what I want

Question everything

Even the things that nobody else asks

I am the steel smelted from simple iron

I am the phoenix rising from the ashes

I blew apart like a supernova

And came back together like a nebula

An accretion disk

A chaotic mess

And here I am now

If I could do it all over again

I’d throw the molotov myself

All the stars (Alternate)

All the stars

And all the me/you

Reforge my/yourself

Through the hellfire

Through the pain

From the first moment

I/you could tell something was different

The flames light

Was wrong

The flames spread

It was inevitable

The flames crawl up the walls

I/you could hide it

The flames blaze across the ceiling

Project it

The flames blaze across the carpet

Can it up and put it away

And rip into another room

But there was only way this could end

The windows blow out and the fire engulfs the building completely

With it all 

Falling

Apart

The building completely collapses

Now pick up your graph paper

And ready your compass

Pick through the wreckage

Clear the lot

And figure out what you want there

Not what they think you should have

But what you want

Question everything

Even the things that nobody else asks

Be the steel smelted from simple iron

Be the phoenix rising from the ashes

And ready your molotov

Transitions

A long time it was, since it all happened

The lockdown started, and we didn’t come back

176 days since one door closed, sealing him back there

121 days since the next opened, letting her loose

The doors propped him up, and held her back there

Known to many, but knowing fewer

Finding needles in a haystack, to know

It was over, we were out, to here

And so she dove into it, becoming

A free fall into the future, away

Here I became me, known and knowing

We became she and he stayed back there, far

These are a few poems I wrote that are all on my own experience of transness. They’re from a few different points over the course of about a year and a half. The last one in this document I wrote for a class in college. It was intentionally written to the standard of 12 lines of 8 syllables each, which is some format of poem that I no longer remember. I think it’s maybe a modified Italian Sonnet, but don’t quote me. That poem is over 18 months old at this poem and a lot has happened between then and now. Feel free to comment the style if you recognize it.