Poems for the mentally ill

This body is not mine

~ Transgender ~

Cut your hair short, that's what he's tort,

then put on a shirt and go play in the dirt.

Mumma i wan't it curly, no that's too girly,

Put on your sneakers then turn up your speakers.

So i keep my little secret, don't tell her

i still mean it. Try on makeup when she's not

home and play dress up comfortably alone. I'd never

let her know, i only feel happy in my pretty little zone.

Grew up secluded, cause i was deluded,

into thinking i was wrong, for not singing along

too God's song.

I feel strange in these shorts, i'm just not that sort,

If i was in a dress i'd feel less of a mess. Maybe just

maybe that's why i'm so depressed?

So i do what i can too make me feel better. Stomach

flatter, breasts bigger, less muscle, more tussle. Harder

then it sounds, too make me feel perfect, just waiting for

somebody too tell me that i'm worth it.

Emotional pain tuned physical - but not

in the way i want, I WANT A SURGEON NOT A RAZOR, A

PLASTER NOT A ROPE - has no one noticed i can no longer

cope, the only reason i'm alive is from smoking all the dope.

Eventually it gets too much so i turn too mum and i say;

'Mum, i'm not gay, and i can't live this way. I'm meant too

be a girl, too smell, swirl and curl like one too. I wan't too

be happy, can't be that in this body. Would you rather your

child be dead than to have a bed for a girl?'

My attempts go nowhere so i make more, although this

time they're a lot more sore. These attempts are different

from the rest, i guess they create a bit more of a mess. This

isn't an attempt too get mums understanding, more an

attempt you'd expect of someone in the army - A TSUNAMI

inside my head, an agreement that i'd rather be dead.