#poems about being trans

[trickstersaint]

decomposition (dysphoria) // june 2023

#GOSH i kept forgetting to post this one. do you all love her. be honest with me #poems about being trans #poems about being nonbinary #it's me and comparing my body to horror tropes for real. this and the haunted house one... #poetry #poem #poems #poets on tumblr #poems and poetry #poetsandwriters #original poetry #original poem #trans poet #trans poetry #gender dysphoria #thinking about the title still. it was just decomposition originally but i kind of fuck with laying out the metaphor more clearly... #and hey it works for all kinds of dysphoria! isn't that awesome #let me know your thoughts. in the comments below

[clockwards]

My friends about a poem I wrote over a year ago:

(literally. they made this meme.)

@insolary @everyones-least-favorite-bard

#i love my friends #silly people #writing #poetry #poems #bible reference #god post #the bible is actually about being trans and gay. to me.

[notquiteaghost]

spent several hours listening to the narcissist cookbook's hymn again and have been thinking since about the poem i've been writing for twelve years about my dad and i thought i was remembering the earliest version of it accurately but i just actually dug it up and. well. no that one is from 2022.

#yelling at clouds #poems i wrote in 2012 are insane to read back now because i didn't know anything #this poem is about being trans i did not know i was trans yet #this poem is about dissociating i did not know what dissociation was yet #this poem is about the cptsd i did not know i had yet #like blatantly. obviously. couldn't someone have SAID.

[ethernitty]

i did not kill the girl i was, she fell asleep next to me, i carried her to her bed and watched her sleep, made her breakfast in the morning, we both have the same meat on our sandwich i play with her, i see her do so many of the things i love but still with the wonder of childhood. there's no hurry, no expected time in which she wants to be done with this. the drawing is to be fun and as i watch her, i slow down, regaining a little bit of that childhood wonder. at these moments part of her slips into me and briefly we look almost indistinguishable.

sometimes she has nightmares and i try to comfort her as best as i can, knowing full well those scare me as well sometimes more, sometimes less while i cant say she has no reason the be afraid, i can promise to keep her safe and have her be a child without being afraid of the big world

#little bit of a vent poem about being trans #might write some more like this if i feel emotionally up to it

[their-we-go]

Ode to a Teenage Dykehood

I was a kid, a minute ago. A month ago. A year ago. I’m still a kid. 

Still a kind of deep-down scared most of the time. Deep-down lonely. Not that deep down. 

Eyes down, in the change room, still sticky-faced from gym class. Not looking, never looking. Looking away. 

Still haven’t moved away, still at home, still in my princess pink bedroom. I chose the colour myself. I was four, I think. 

Not thinking about me at eighteen, me at nineteen, me creeping up on twenty. Still in the same room, with the same walls, princess pink. 

Pink cheeks and a heart that’s beating too loud when she presses her shoulder into mine on the couch. When she turns to me in the dark. When she sways a little closer. I’m not sure which one of us looks away this time. It was probably me. It’s always me. 

Always nervous. Always checking the time. Checking the weather. Checking the wrong box on all the forms at the doctor. Signing a name that doesn’t belong to me. That I don’t belong to. 

Will it be long, what I’m waiting for? 

What am I waiting for?

#sorry it's sad #there will be other happier poems about all the perfect beautiful golden parts of being a dyke #my writing #poetry #my poetry #lesbian #gay #dyke #butch lesbian #genderqueer #nonbinary #transmasc lesbian #sapphic poetry #trans poetry #lesbian poetry #butch #butch poetry

[tekra-brings-the-rain]

I keep thinking about Nex. They should’ve lived. They should be home with their family right now.

#vent post so mind the tags here #I always feel so terrible when I hear about trans people especially children being killed on the news #but this hit me differently #I was very close in age to them #He even looked like me #same length of hair #same face shape #same skin color #I keep thinking how easily I could be the next news article #how easily one of my friends could be #how for so many trans people who have been killed and will be killed the wrong name will be on their graves #Someone I know on here wrote a poem about them #I read it again and again and again #I am sure there is a god #And if they should call themselves caring #They better keep this child in their memory #Long live Nex Benedict #Long live his memory

[elinekeit-artstuff]

A meditation on 女媧 (Nüwa) and the act of creation.

She presses the clay between her fingers carefully mixing twisting cutting folding breaking constantly searching for the shape of herself

Her warm hands are as coarse as hessian The fire in her brown almond eyes is electrifying bright with the vibrancy of power, strength and happiness.

"whenever you're ready, come alive."

Then Everything happened,

skin, hair, head, chest, eyes, arms emerge from the earth.

combine into a body, and breathes

#poem #artists on tumblr #collage poetry #queer art #thinking about the act of creation that comes with being trans #you know how it is #i also really liked how the collage turned out #collage #2022 works #mix media #cut-up poem

[vacantgodling]

releasing a poem from the vault bc i'm hurting rn :DDDDD

cocoon

how many ways can i say that i’m not a fault before it takes root inside of your skull?  you can’t take credit for my metamorphosis you did not spin lace to cover my cocoon why is it a fault that i became a moth instead of a bee? a wasp instead of a butterfly? why do you say it as though i am a flaw to be bred out what shame is buried underneath the sands of your mind that you must take credit for the one good thing i’ve done and twist it into something miserly? you raised a good caterpillar but you don’t choose my final shape don’t be upset when i spread my wings be glad, instead, that i am soaring instead of crashing into the pavement, or down dead in a tomb

#ren poems #this is about being a trans man this is about being a trans man this is about being a trans man #<- in case this was not clear

[scamera-writes]

Her. An Essay.

The spring air lies heavy in your lungs as you breathe in deeply, the bright smells assault your nose and waves of nostalgia roll off the hills. You know this is her favorite season so you’ve dressed prepared for the chill in the air.

It's a long walk to the meadow with a shovel in hand and wheelbarrow pushed in front of you, but you do it. When you get there, a girl smiles up at you from where she is playing in the grass.

You know her age, but do not say it. You know her name, but do not say it. You know her, but do not say it.

She says hello in that sweet mellow tone that sounds so foreign yet so similar and tastes like syrup on your tongue. Her eyes are wide and shining, but blissfully not tear stained- like your own- and her cheeks are round with a warm flush as her smile softens.

You do not meet her eyes, those same beautifully colored eyes that match yours, searching for a hint as to what you’re doing here. You gaze across the meadow instead but still catch a glimpse of her blue denim overalls and green shirt.

They match your own in a way.

You finally say hi back and take the shovel to the dirt under a beautifully perfect sycamore tree that arches into the sky; it rises before the two of you, right in the middle of the meadow. The dirt stains your clothes as you drop to your knees, using your hands more than the shovel to dig at the layered earth.

You hear soft footsteps behind you but don’t look up from your work. To your side you see the girl walk up to you again and she places a small flower behind your ear before grinning and moving to lay in the sun near you.

You pluck the flower out from behind your ear to examine it. A white petunia. A wistful familiarity to the flower washes over you and you tuck it back behind your ear before moving back to the freshly unearthed dirt.

You can feel her watching as you dig this pit, you hate the feeling of dirt under your fingernails. The mud cakes on your hands and crackles with every movement; it makes your skin crawl but you don’t give up now. After a small hole is dug, you grab the large stone and tools brought in the wheelbarrow and begin to carve. She sits next to you now, her smaller hands grip a rock in her own palms and she plays with it gently.

You carve a name you didn’t think you’d ever write again into the rock and place it at the top of the pit. She recognizes the name, tips her head smiling gently, and in an understanding manner she stands up.

And walks away. Around the back of the sycamore tree she disappears and then reappears.

She plucks a sycamore leaf off the ground when she´s visible again and looks up as you smile at her. She drops the leaf into the hole you've dug, then helps you repack the layers of sediment that you both know you’ll unearth again, in the future, to be intertwined together in the end.

But not now. Now, the earth is resealed and she smiles sweetly, laying a makeshift bouquet of petunias and poppies with a gentle hand.

You get up and hold a hand out for her, she doesn't look away from the earth you've both just moved and instead runs her hands over the top of the rocks again before sighing with a big smile. She gets up and grabs your hand, it's so much smaller and softer than yours yet you can still feel the dirt on both of your hands.

She grips your hand a little tighter, following your lead as you walk towards home, flower still tucked behind your ear you notice a matching flower behind her own. And you smile.

When you get closer to the house, her eyes are wide with soft recognition, a place so familiar to the both of you yet it feels cold and empty at the same time. You invite her inside again, it's been so long for you both, still the house is like an old friend, in a way. You hold open the door and she steps through.

She walks over to the dinner table and sits down at the far side, gesturing for you to sit on the other but you shake your head politely.

You aren't ready yet.

You ask if she’d like a drink, and she nods. You already know what she would like so you don’t have to wait for her to tell you. Passing over the tall glass with ice clinking in it feels like a ritual. You don't want to let go. You do. You sit down across from her.

You know what's coming next and it's hard. You know you have to accept it. Losing her again won't be easy but you know it's not permanent this time.

She takes small sips of her drink, smiling over to you but neither of you attempt to make small talk anymore, you both know how the interaction will end.

And it's not bittersweet. Neither of you are upset. She is content in a way you don’t think you quite understand yet. But you think you feel complete, whole and peaceful for possibly the first time in your life.

It's enjoyable to watch her glowing eyes look at you with respect and admiration, to be able to grow into what you did makes her heart beat with something adjacent to love.

And as you leave the house, knowing you will be reunited in the end, to be buried in love & hate, happiness & anger, and warmth & heartache. You know it's love. It's always been love.

For her.

-Her. An Essay. (By me)

Happy trans visibility day. This is an ode to the girl I was. We will be buried together in the end. I love you, take care.

#scamera writes #scamera poems #original poem #trans day of visibility #transgender #lgbtq #tdov #wanted to post this one eventually and figured today wasnt a terrible day to do it #anyways. idk if it comes across properly but this is about being and not being the girl i was #and how she was herself and in order to be me i had to dig her grave and by god she helped #but we will be intertwined again in the end #(idk if That makes sense ! guys my brain works weird) #also yeah. this one is a long one <3 i do call it an essay dont i #and idk how happy i am with this (i cant tell if it Seems positive but its supposed to be kinda) #it still feels much too story based for what i want but im okay enough with it that i will post it (im not Overly happy with it) #i dont think it needs any tags? just in case though #ask to tag #okay #i love you all & happy tdov #your body is your own and you are lovely

[life-ruined-me]

I think the years of repressed “I’m really a boy” are catching up to me 🙃

#transgender #trans man #transmasc #male #the need to be a man is actually crushing me #i hate my body #like literally #poetry #original poem #poems on tumblr #poems and poetry #my poem #poetry about being trans #I think #honestly I don’t know how I am

[queen0funova]

I was at a cute little poetry circle recently, and I read a poem of mine inspired by my favorite poem. "Batter My Heart, Transgender’d God" by Meg Day (I'll put that poem under the cut). Someone then turned to me and asked if my "Batter My Heart" was the inspiration for it. Apparently they're the one who introduced the poem to the person who introduced me to it

Batter My Heart, Transgender’d God by Meg Day:

Batter my heart, transgender’d god, for yours

is the only ear that hears: place fear in my heart

where faith has grown my senses dull & reassures

my blood that it will never spill. Show every part

to every stranger’s anger, surprise them with my drawers

full up of maps that lead to vacancies & chart

the distance from my pride, my core. Terror, do not depart

but nest in the hollows of my loins & keep me on all fours.

My knees, bring me to them; force my head to bow again.

Replay the murders of my kin until my mind’s made new;

let Adam’s bite obstruct my breath ’til I respire men

& press his rib against my throat until my lips turn blue.

You, O duo, O twin, whose likeness is kind: unwind my confidence

& noose it round your fist so I might know you in vivid impermanence.

#idk I just thought this was silly and neat #glad to see someone else knows what runs through my head #obsessed with this poem tbh #The whole poetry circle was such a sweet and fun thing ngl #What if I just confessed my undying love #I got to see a bunch of people I haven't had a chance to be around in Months as well #One person made cupcakes themed around Wild Geese by Mary Oliver #I think I ate cupcakes that said 'wild geese head home' and 'the world offers itself' #Who is your favorite poet? #trans #transgender #Poetry #poems #poetry circle #My poem is about being queer but not specifically trans #I'm planning to submit it to a literary magazine soon so we'll see how that goes #lgbt #lgbtq #Meg Day #Batter My Heart Transgender’d God #queer #I'm poem #Great use of 3+ hours on a Sunday #I nearly cried on my way back home because I was just so overwhelmingly happy #I love you all to Fragments

[trickstersaint]

elegy in which you are the creator in the laboratory // october 29 2023

#let's go babeyyyyy. getting my little queerness and horror poems in before halloween #need to commit to writing more of these at all times of the year. anyway #poems about being trans #poems about being nonbinary #another poem about frankenstein #did not mean this to seem so directly about gender affirming surgery. kind of supposed to just be an identity thing in general haha. #but hey. it is in the people's hands now #this is also technically about god and whatnot cause whenever i'm writing about frankenstein and the monster #victor frankenstein is a parallel to god and the monster is humanity. you can just take that as a given from me #so. y'know. us when we're god's creations but reforming ourselves to be the way we want to be :) #and that's transness in general babey not just surgeries #let's go girls! let's remake ourselves against god's wishes! his bitchass can't do shit about it now! #poetry #poem #poems #poems and poetry #poets on tumblr #poetsandwriters #original poetry #trans poet #trans poetry #trans #<3

[the-land-of-dreams]

Do you tire of it? The feeling of being incomplete? The unending unease of lying in wait? You trudge through your life with sepals pressed to your skin, trying to ignore how they itch and constrict. Fear not, restless child, there will come a day when the wilting leaves will fall from your eyes, and you will see through fate's gaze clear as a reflection, and you will be terrified, and you will be free.

(image id in description)

#ok uh #i. tried to somehow make this both about clover being fated to be immortal and about her being trans #which kind of makes for a weird mixed metaphor but fuckin. whatever. i tried #also the poem part is vaguely inspired by that one part in major tom after the gun jams #artistic nude #dr mccoy #dr clover mccoy #clover mccoy #scp 963 #dr bright rewrite #scp #scp foundation #scp fandom #scp art #scp au #scp fanart #scp doctors #scp character #digital art #digital drawing #artists on tumblr #tumblr art #illustration #digital illustration #digital artist #digital painting #kritaart #drawn with krita #my art #lily's art 2023

[gender0bender]

ID: A black and white photograph of Ali Cannon holding his baby son close to his chest and looking at the camera. Cannon is shirtless, and has short dark hair and facial hair. He has been photographed in a room with a sofa, armchair and multiple book shelves. His son is resting his head on his father’s chest and seems to be asleep. There is a tagline at the bottom reading: Ali Cannon is a Jewish writer and poet from the San Francisco Bay Area with a poetry book coming out in the summer of 2005. His wife and photographer, Jessica Israel, is a Jewish bisexual woman who is passionate about her trans husband, and maybe even more passionate about their son, Rephael. ED.

Ali Michael Cannon (he/him) is a writer, organizer, activist, and public speaker who is a recognized leader in the transgender community. Professionally, he has worked in the education field for 30 years, serving as a District Administrator and a Non-Profit Manager. Currently he works as a consultant, supporting schools to become more LGBTQ+ inclusive and address issues of equity and bias. A proud father and husband—he lives in Oakland with his wife, Jessica, an Oakland Public School Principal, and their high school son. He has a godson who just graduated from college, reflecting how much chosen family is a vital part of his relationship to building and sustaining queer community.

His writing has been published in From the Inside Out: Radical Gender Transformation, FTM and Beyond. His provocative illumination of Jewish and transgender themes can be seen in the film, It’s A Boy: Journeys from Female to Male and his essay (co-authored with TJ Michels), Whose Side Are You On: Transgender at the Western Wall. Cannon founded the theater group, Transmen Tell Their Tales, and was a long-time writer, performer, and producer of Chutzpah—a Queer Jewish theater group in San Francisco.

Ali earned a Bachelor’s and Master’s degree in Feminist Studies from the University of California, Santa Cruz and San Francisco State respectively.  He served on the Board of Our Family Coalition, the Bay Area’s LGBTQ Family Organization for eight years.

(Note from me: this picture of him was featured in a trans man calender produced by FTM International for 2005-6 called “Heroes: (Trans)Male Role Models, Part 2“, you can view some of the other pictures here)

#transgender #transmasculine #transman #transmen #jewish trans men #trans writer #ali cannon #I took the bio from some website that talked about his work #tragically I haven't been able to find much of anything about either Chutzpah or Transmen tell their tales #but I have uploaded all of from the inside out (how I found out about him) which features some of his poem #*s #it's a boy is also sadly missing from the internet #whose side are you on is apparently features in queer jews the essay collection though if anyone can get their hands on that #I also haven't been able to find anything about his poetry book #tried googling his name plus poetry books but. aside from him being the director of a poetry thing #haven't had any luck #there's something here to be said for the importance of archiving recent trans history and achievements as they happen #my uploads

[boneyardponderings]

What's in a deadname?

The dead can't speak.

The memories of the living

Are the only things left.

It didn’t happen to me,

It happened to her.

Poor girl.

I hope in the dirt

The cold, crushing hug

Is enough to erase all the damage done

By grasping hands and wandering lips,

Cruel words and horrible days.

The dead can't speak, but I hope she listens.

#one thing about being transmasc is all the damage was done to someone shaped like an innocent little girl #deadname #transgender #transmasc #poetry #poem #trans

[w1tchytr1als]

You don’t tell a story by asking permission-

Let me tell you a story,

A story about scarred hands and

Bruised lips and skin buzzing.

The type of story that one might tell

In a quiet voice, perched at the bus stop,

Pulling change from their pockets.

Exchanged two blocks down from your best friend’s house,

Maybe given out on a greyhound.

Stories are told through the polite conversations you might have at three p.m:

I don’t know where I’m going-

Where are you going? What are you running from?

You don’t tell a story by asking permission,

Even if it wasn’t phrased as a question.

I don’t like where this story is going. Can we

Skip to closed eyes and the taste of blood,

To hands on ribs and torn shirts?

Educate me, what in this story symbolizes passion;

Is it the broken wrists or chapped mouth?

Or is it something else entirely? I’ve been told

Every good story has a promise, every

Good story has a loaded gun,

But I only have the gun with me today.

Darling, I am the trigger finger,

I am tightening my breath before the shot.

My younger self was beautiful

So I had to kill her-

You know how the story is supposed to go.

A story is a promise,

Not unlike the murmuring of a radio

Tuned perfectly to your conscious-

Or of voices turned soft:

I find it easier to believe you love me

When it’s said in a whisper.

But we have no stories to share. Just wavelengths

On the dial, just the five o'clock news

Turned onto the scene of the crime;

And our parents are searching the tv stills

For our faces, they’re looking under our nails

For any blood we were unable to get out,

They’re looking at us as though we’re already guilty.

But I don’t have anything left I can confess to, just:

That this is the story I carry under my skin;

That this has become my identity.

Every good story ends

In the back of a cop car, our pinkies trying to interlock despite

The tightness of the cuffs around our wrists;

And I love you, I love you despite the pounding in my chest

And the uncontrollable sobs wracking my body.

I will keep our secrets.

I will.

original work, 2023

#queer #lgbtqia #this poem is about being trans #this poem is by a trans person about eir transness #nblnb #gay poetry #queer poetry #nonbinary #nonbinary poet #poetry #queer pagan #trans poetry #sad poem #violence mention tw #using violence as a way to explain the concept of leaving who i was born as behind #gay people #lgbtq