Internal screaming translated to something a bit prettier

is it really so hard?

Its called a dead-name because its buried under 6ft of emotional turmoil.

Dysphoria is a jumper.

For some it was a gift given to them at their baby shower

they've worn it since birth

and as they grew it got tighter and tighter.

The mention of my old name

or those restricting

and uncomfortable pronouns

cause the jumper to tighten even more,

squeezing the breath and will to life,

out of me.

The jumper intensifies the summer's heat

and forces us to don an extra layer of itchy wool.

The friction between this jumper

and my school uniform

creates a raging fire.

A burning so painful

that it tears at my skin,

the smoke brings tears to my eyes,

enters my blood,

fills my lungs with soot

and tightens around my throat

making me choke

and forces out boken sobs.

Making a short lesson,

that could've been interesting

seem like a lifetime of torture

Yet instead of dousing me with water

all they do is ask around for help,

tell me that

'it's going to be ok'

then continue to fan the flames