this message may be offensive
11/16/17
I hope no one who reads this ever actually experiences dysphoria, because it's a bitch (not the fun kind, either), but I picked that as the word I'm thinking about while I'm writing because I'm having a pretty shitty day. I haven't been able to bind, and that's really been affecting me. If chesticles bother you, don't wear a binder that's too small or fold said binder over the top of your chest a few times if it's a tank top. Don't sleep in it. Don't wear it forever. Wash it regularly.
Don't be a Ren, because I do exactly what you're not supposed to do.
The poem kind of got away from me and turned into its own thing, but I was trying to write something that describes what I'm feeling and practice the thing I'm supposed to be doing for my English class. I didn't win at either, really, because this doesn't even have the gruesome shit I want to do to myself in order to get rid of my fat sacks. I didn't even mention referring to them as such or anything of the like for the soul purpose of torturing myself.
Sigh.
I babble too easily, and the only good thing I get out of talking is the occasional "sir" thrown my way by confused old men when I bag their groceries. Do I get a lot of sirs? No, I get more ma'am's after people look at my fucking chest and decide that there's an ambiguous lump there, so I *must* be a fucking girl.
Kill
Me...
Please.
Kill me.
This turned into more of a rantassity ramble than I was really anticipating or hoping for, fucking hell.