#cyberrs poem

[cyberr-v0id]

Once upon a time there was a girl who saw magic in everything, and magic saw everything in her

She saw fairies in the wild woods, and sirens in the salty seas

She didn’t walk, she skipped

She didn’t talk, she sang

She didn’t leap, she flew

She didn’t sleep, she dreamt up worlds

And she was bloody miserable because everyone hated her for it.

So one day she stopped skipping, she stopped singing, she stopped flying, she stopped dreaming. She no longer saw fairies in the wild woods or sirens in the salty seas. She didn’t see magic in everything, she saw nothing at all, and nothing saw magic in her.

And the girl grew up longing for a world she had left behind, and living in one she wasn’t made for. And she was miserable.

And that girl

Was

Me

Of course, but you already guessed that

[cyberr-v0id]

I love the poem. I am nonbinary/genderfluid, leaning transmasc and also living in the uk. I have to live knowing that the actions of all the adults around me regarding who they vote for could make or break my future as a trans person in this country. I have to live knowing that despite having done nothing wrong I am hated and despised and told that I should not exist. I have not fully come out to my family yet because I know that it is dangerous for me to do so in a country that could so easily criminalise my entire existence at the drop of a hat. I tried last year living as openly nonbinary and genderfluid at school, but this made me the target of so much harassment and bullying- some of it at the hands of teachers- that’s I had no choice but to hide it as much as I could this year. These were people who listened to the media and the government and the internet telling them that trans people are bad, freaks, that we don’t deserve to exist or lead peaceful lives, and decided to weaponise that knowledge to make my life a living hell. Because I existed. Because I fitted outside of the box. Because I was trans. Because, in their eyes, I was a werewolf.

This poem is beautiful and really, truly resonated with me. It is rare to find a poem about the trans experience without searching for it, and this one I found quite upon accident, and it is one of my favourite poems I have ever read. It is a poem that describes my experience, and the experience of many others I know and love.

We also need to remember that werewolves themselves do not actually exist, and there are plenty of times when they have been presented as non-violent in the media. Like, hundreds, that you could easily find. Why not start with monster high? There have also been other cases of werewolves being used as queer allegories by people within the community.

There aren’t any real cases of people who have been attacked by werewolves. Because they don’t actually exist. But trans people do exist, and are treated like a kind of monster by the world

this poem is about being nonbinary.

[cyberr-v0id]

In the harsh light of the bathroom

I lift up my skirts

And carefully examine the wire thin scars

That pepper the skin of my legs

Never once have I taken a

Blade to my body

(At least: I have never intentionally)

In fits of anger and sorrow

My nails can serve as good as the

Scissors do for you

Slitting open the soft skin of my four limbs

Leaving a spiders web of scars

-an old poem I started writing months ago

‘Spider web of scars’, a poem by me

[cyberr-v0id]

One day this life will be soft to me.

I will live in an old house in a nice area

and there will be woods and fields nearby for me to roam,

and my house will have heavy wooden doors with locks,

but with gaps under the doorways

so that they do not catch on the floor

as they open.

And in my bedroom

there will be an old four poster

with heavy curtains that can be closed around it,

and the warm glow of fairy lights.

And I will curl up there one evening,

perhaps alone,

perhaps with a cat,

perhaps with someone I love.

And finally, I will be able to sleep

[cyberr-v0id]

Too many people relate the ocean to sunshine and summer and relaxation and… that’s just not it.

I mean no hate if that’s what it means to you, and maybe it’s the fact that I AM an ocean child, my family is from the sea and we came to this country across it, but I can just never relate the ocean to an ice cream and a pool floatie.

To me the ocean is wild. It is danger. It is freedom. It is tasting the edge and knowing that not everyone can come back from it. It is swimming as far out the bay as you can when you’re twelve because you’re just so enchanted by the water and what it promises, only to realise that you’ve drifted far from where your family was. It is promises and secrets and treasure. It is alluring, a siren in the back of my mind, calling to me. It is hooked deep into who I am and I know that I can never come back from that.

The ocean is restless and she cares for no one any more than she has to. She would willingly drag me down ti her depths and never let me go, and that just makes me love her more. The ocean is in my heart.

The ocean, the sea, the waves that crash on the rocks in the storm, that rush up up up over the sand banks and into the town. That isn’t a being that is intrinsically tied to sunlight and fruit and sun tans.

Have you never stood on the cliffs, or the end of the pier, and felt the waves crashing below and the salt spray fly onto your face? Have you never felt the tug of a current, or stayed on the shore even as the tide comes up to your legs, then up to the harbour wall? Have you never stepped into her fierce embrace and wished to never leave?

The ocean is restless, yes, and wild, and dangerous. She will be tamed by nobody.

[cyberr-v0id]

If I fail all my exams then at least I still have my wit and poetic genius.

[cyberr-v0id]

Some poems are just so fun to sing. Mm yes you meant this to be spoken, perhaps even whispered to the night, but have you considered: singing it whistfully and quietly to the darkness and the woods?

[cyberr-v0id]

Im so tired, I genuinely can’t be dealing with this hell again.

So I wrote another poem to deal with my feelings! That’s a lie, I spontaneously decided to write one whilst making this post. Deal with it, I’m a literature nerd you freaks.

Another day I am forced to wake

To rip myself from the land of dreams

And walk this one of torment

To sweeten my day

I turn to my phone, the rectangular box

Of hells and horrors

And I send you a message

‘You’ could be anyone

Anyone to me

But against my better judgment

I have allowed you to become a ‘someone’

I greet you in my usual gruff manner

‘Morning’

And I hope that you understand that I am not mad at you

But I am mad at this cruel existence

Full of vile people and iron pain

I dont know why I worry.

I say this every morning

And it is yet to scare you off

It is far more frightening

And to myself too

When I start the day

With a cheery tone and sickening smile

A choking honey message

Of ‘good morning :)’

Or ‘GOOD MORNING’

Nay- the most cheer you will get from me

Is a brash and bawdy

´MORNIN FREAKS AND AINT IT A TRULY WONDERFUL DAY’

Lathered in sarcasm

But anyways

I message you

In my usual manner

I do not deviate

And I wait for your reply

It never comes.

Not before I have to march

Into the enclosed tin hall

But no matter

You don’t need to be in today

And are likely still sleeping

In that sweet land of dreams

I am early to rise these days

It is not unusual to wait hours

Before hearing from you

While I am trapped in that tin can

I fantasise of you

Before I blink

And am brought heavily back

To where I really am.

I open my phone to our messages

As soon as I am let out

My heart

DROPS.

You have seen it

And you have not replied.

I leave it be

And wait till I am home

Before I ask, at almost lunch

How your day is going?

I foolishly dare to be hopeful

A bit later

An hour or two

You reply

You do not ask me

How my day is going

What I am doing

Or how the exam

Which you know I was dreading

For I do not have a way with numbers

(Though you always attempt to convince me that I do and I am not bad and that ‘no one is bad at maths there’s just bad teachers. Now I say it here, you have no tact, too caught up in your own greatness and teeny tiny failures to even imagine that someone might be bad. But that is cruel and I know it’s not true. You’re good. You’re better than the others. That’s why I chose to trust you. Remember? Remember, o heart?)

Time skip to this evening

Just after tea

And we have spared almost no words

Though I have replied to all of yours in my usual manner

(Still you do not ask about me.)

And I crack

And I spill genuine words

Not about you

And the hurt that you cause

But about a situation that we both can see

Just expressing my frustration

Left.

On.

Read.

Until later I feel the need to clarify something

You’ll never guess

On read again!

Till hours later

You reply

A corporate email sounding response

I almost say that too you

But then you’ll just apologise

And then I’ll feel guilty

For your faults

Suddenly, you appear

The tiny words

´Online’

Atop our messages

Just below your name

I stare at you

You stare at me

Through the screen

Three seconds

Then you leave

I laugh, quietly and dryly to myself

So predictable

This time, I leave you on read

It’s the first time I’ve ever done it deliberately

Yet we both know

That I will not leave it as long as you

And I will be back

To bark my goodbyes of the night

A loyal hound

Despite the beatings

Of the hand that feeds

- Left On Read // Hound that feeds

Another poem by me

[cyberr-v0id]

And it’s a spring almost summer day

And I’m sat in my room with an oversized hoodie and fluffy winter socks

Because it’s been raining all day and now it’s cold

Probably because of the heatwave we had last week

(I learnt something about it in geography once, before I met you)

And despite this I am still wearing the skimpiest pair of bright blue summer pyjama shorts

Because they’re comfy and I can get away with wearing them twice before they need washing

And I’m sat here

Birds quarrelling loudly in the hedge across the street

The sound of yet more construction vehicles

Somewhere near by- I don’t know quite where but I can hear them through my open window-

And a timer is going off for the oven

And I’m sat here, legs bent awkwardly as always

And I’m worrying about you again.

And I know that you don’t like it when I worry about you

And I know that you tell me not to

But I’m worrying about you again, as always

I can’t help it, I swear, I’ve tried

I just care too much

But it’s in my nature, see?

I know I act big and strong and bold like but worrying is in my nature.

It’s been in my nature since I was six years old and sat crying on the benches

Since I was eight and made a ton of worry fills out of pipe cleaners because our teacher who’s wife is from South central American taught us about the worry dolls from Guatemala

In my nature since I was ten and a girl told me that my friends had been talking about me behind my back

Since I was twelve and realised that I didn’t actually have any friends.

And I wish I didn’t have to worry about you, honest, but I care about you and caring about people makes you worry, and lately

You’ve been acting off

You’ve

Been acting like

Another

Stranger

- Worrying, another poem by me

[cyberr-v0id]

I saw a photo of my grandma today. I think this was the first time. I only met her as a small kid, she and my mum didn’t get along, and she died soon after my brother was born, and met him once.

I looked at the photo and I saw nothing of myself in her. Her skin was darker than my mums is, her hair shoulder length and dark brown. She had a somewhat prominent chin, I suppose, thinking about it now, that that’s the same chin my mum and I have. She looked like she might’ve been short.

My mum said that her sister, my aunt who does not like us, looked more like her. My cousins probably do too.

It’s weird to think of the people I have heard of all my life as being people that were apart of my mums childhood, and were real, and connected. I knew my aunt, though we haven’t seen her in years, but I never really thought about how she would have grown up with my mum.

Living in the same house. Playing with the same toys. Eating with the same brothers. Riding the same horses, horses still around.

My grandma didn’t look like how I’d imagined. She has the same hair colour as my mum. Her eyes were brown too.

I look more like my grandad, though that may just be because I knew him and loved him that I think this. I have his eyes, my eyes are not the same shade as blue as my dad’s, but they are the same as my grandads.

It’s weird to think that if my parents hadn’t moved away I would have been living so close to my mother family, talking to them, running into them on the streets. On the road.

Maybe I would have rode the horses too, if the horses are back.

[cyberr-v0id]

Wolf Dog

Oh wolf dog

One who prowls in the night alone and afraid

You hide your fear behind sharp words and biting breath

Hisses and snarls

Scratches and howls

All so that you are not seen as weak

You long to protect, and save those you love

And yet you push them away, afraid of the hurt

That you have been given, unfairly, unjustly, by the last ones you’d chosen to trust

Oh wolf dog,

Who leaps into the current instead of the bridge, struggling madly, to not be dragged down

Fur heavy.

Legs tired.

You cannot protect them by turning your claws and teeth to their flesh

You are angry to stop them from hurting themselves

You push them away to save them from you

Alone, wolf dog?

Oh wolf dog

You wonder at what you have done

You warned them, you warned them

And yet they are mad

You came back to them, tail between your legs

Head low

Eyes pleading

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry

It was on me’

And are met with hollow words

You wonder

‘Why are you angry that I am everything I warned you I was?’

- a poem by me

[cyberr-v0id]

SUP CANINOS TIME FOR SOME POETRYYY

Because what else should I do with my time

It is one particular morning

No- not a particular one, just a morning like the others

It is one morning, a Tuesday, and the day is accompanied by the sound of yells and angry words

As I have grown accustomed to over the years

I do not fully register the sharp pain as I take a bite

Im always trying to eat more than I my teeth can rip from the fruit

But when I look down at the apple, it is stained red at the centre

I do not know if it is from the fruit- or my own gums