the beekeeper.

soldiers of the dysphoric war.

a/n: i wrote this poem in a notebook back in 2016, but i finally typed it up on this soooo enjoy a classic

i know what the papers say.
i'm well aware that at birth science told my parents who told me who told the world that this baby,
that i was female.
so trust me when i tell you,
i know what the papers say.
i know that the Bible and its followers have labeled me sickening,
and i know that biologically, i am "twisted"
and i know i am something of "legend" and of "myth",
but i also know that i am not wrong.

my mother can sit behind her wall of smoke and seclude herself from facts that i have already had to face.
my stepfather can tell himself lies to make his stagnant ways shield him from talk of anything different
because that is the safe way.
the pastors of rage and hate can scream, "wash away the devil within you, child!"
but not a single one will know the truth of their sermons until they have lived in the mind of a boy trapped inside the body of a girl.
they won't know how harmful their accusations are until they feel the weight of hundreds of sleepless nights caused by pounding, sickening headaches from weeping alone
over and over and over and over again.
straighten up soldier,
don't let them see you cry.
men don't cry son,
don't you cry!

don't cry.
they will use those tears as holy water,
and they will dowse your every thought,
your every breath,
your entire life
until all of your unholiness sizzles into nothing but ashes,
and that's all you'll ever be.
ashes.
because a man with no hope,
isn't a man at all.
he is succumbed to a life of raging spells of hate and deceitful lies that he tells himself,
so tell me:
do you like to see hopeless people wandering caverns of uncertainty and unmasked indifference?
because, frankly, i don't want to become a traveler of sorrowful trails,
trails that have no ending
and no destination.

what is a journey without a destination?
is it a maze with no escape or a puzzle with a missing puzzle piece,
because i cannot escape the fact that i seem to be missing a piece of information
to link together how who i was born to be is associated with eternal damnation.
or how men and women turn away from their own offspring for a label stapled into their heart and taped over their eyes.
you gave them that label!
if god loves all his children,
why can't you?
after all,
you can't reap what you sow until you learn what you preach.

but that's just the thing.
people like that never learn.
not until they have faced that never-ending labyrinth
or formed hunting parties to search for that missing puzzle piece.
they won't learn until they've seen a loved one go through those booby traps,
and some may not survive!
will i be one that survives?
or will i end up like the other trapped souls that these magistrates were willing to sacrifice?

so my plea to you is to not allow me,
or anyone else for that matter,
to become a hopeless wanderer.
i don't have a map yet,
but i plan to get one...
and if i can't get one,
i'll draw my own.
i'll make sure to scribble down each landmark and colour code the trials i'm tested with based on the level of danger.
i promise i'll make my own map;
i'll find my own way!
whether i've got people behind me or not.

because between the seams of my dysphoric agony,
i am a masterpiece.
i, myself, am one in seven billion.
i am the only north star in the millions of constellations.
perhaps i may be different,
but i am not wrong.