#ftm poem

[cainvstheworld]

Inches Closer by Cain Birch

My boyfriend pointed out that when we hug now (both of us having had top surgery) our hearts are closer together, so I wrote a little poem about it :')

[Text ID: Inches Closer by Cain Birch. The long, sticky summer fades, and I slowly peel back the bandages cocooning my chest. My scars are just flowering, and will bloom darker in the coming cooler months. Yours are lightening, softening  under the un-weight of time. You wrap me in a firm embrace, one flat chest against another, our hearts inches closer than they were in August. Now, they throb in perfect sync, too-tender skin no longer interrupting when one calls out to the other. /End ID]

[dysl3xicpo3t]

intrusive thoughts-

as my mind floods with violence and my thoughts become grim,

There's a little boy somewhere deep inside me screaming for help.

These ideas aren’t mine yet they fill my head and they get harder and harder to ignore. 

I'm not a violent person so why am I thinking like this?

i’m not a murderer,

i’m not a rapist,

i’m not an abuser,

So why are these thoughts mine?

[asmanysouls-astherebestars]

There’s a girl in my closet- a Transgender Poem

There’s a girl in my closet

And under my bed

She’s hidden away

But she lives in my head

A visitor, but a welcomed guest

(Give her the kindness and solitude she deserved)

Sometimes she comes to the mirror to play

(Wishing that when I see her, it wasn’t through a lens of loathing)

The girl in my closet

Is slowly erased

Once hers is mine (ours)

Or is gone

The girl in my closet

Is no longer real

She disappears to me (To everyone but those who despise her and I)

The girl in my closet

Did she ever exist?

Both here and not

Always is and never was

[genekies]

My Mother's Child

I am my mothers child,

A bundle of her hopes and dreams,

Her anxieties and pain,

And her illnesses and sorrow.

Dolled up in dresses and curls,

Covered in muck and scratches,

Pine and leaves in long tangled hair,

Brushed and braided yet frizzed and wild.

My mother's daughter died long ago,

She still mourns her loss,

With every sunrise and set,

She begs silently for her return,

But she never really died,

She only in my mothers eyes.

I am my mother's child,

Because no matter what happens,

My mother wanted two daughters,

So I will never be her son.

Genekies, My Mothers Child, 2024

[peachypie-puppy]

I wrote another notes app poem finally

Inspired by a random tiktok I saw but can’t find anymore

[adiodont]

figuring things out, reflecting.

[somegaywizard]

A two sentence poem about my childhood best friend <3

[nico-nico-suavecito]

published in FRUITSLICE

preorder my book

[m4nc4v3-2000]

Your old name is not your king. I rename you 'Everything'.

Inspired by this poem.

[crip-writing-shit]

She dies before me  

Body sprawled lifelessly

She lies there

My mildew baby 

The devoted follower 

Of hopeless want 

As she lies there 

I place my hand over hers

And that’s when I know that I belong to her

Wholly and completely 

Holy incompletely

love poem to myself with religious undertones

He lies before me

Arms laid out openly

  Queer crucifixion

He lies there

My king of carbon monoxide poisoning

The patron saint of lifeless love

As he lies there

He places an outstretched hand over mine

And that’s when I know that I belong to him

Wholly and completely incompletely holy

[visionsofaselfmademan]

[cainvstheworld]

Sign of the Cross by Cain Birch

[Text ID: Sign of the Cross by Cain Birch. When you pick up your phone, you perform the sign of the cross, genuflect to unlock. When I am desperate, seeking, I still pray to Saint Anthony. We both were raised as lambs, as daughters under the crook. We consumed body and blood each Sunday, hoping that they would consume us, that they would turn us into something closer to Sons of God rather than Daughters. But the Eucharist is only a wafer; the wine is watered down. Our limbs stayed soft until they drank from glass chalices, from the palms of pharmacists. Love, let me suture up the holes in your palms, my needle sterilized with hellfire. /End ID]

[dysl3xicpo3t]

comfort in ‘evil’-

if god is all loving, 

Why doesn’t he love lucifer? 

if god is all forgiving,

Why doesn’t he forgive lucifer? 

if god is all powerful,

Why didn’t he stop lucifer?

if god is so great,

Why did he make me this way?

if god is so great,

Why did he give me this body?

if god is so great,

Why did he give me these thoughts?

if god is so great,

Why do I find more comfort in lucifer than i do in god?

[poorlilpubby]

Why are you getting up while we're cuddling?

You have to pee?

I'm literally right here

Piss in my mouth, duhhh

[emotional-moss]

ten short hymns representing a doomed sense of being

i. look at your hands. you are the weapon, you always have been.

ii. o my swineherd, o my swine. this is boyhood and they will kill you with it. it is not yours to begin with, you have to fight for it. you fight for it to be turned against and you know why. you crave difference. 

iii. you are not soft, you are not strong either. have you ever seen a fossil? you are an imprint of what you used to be. 

iv. all my wounds say the same thing. they tell me this is not how it should be. all my bandages keep them quiet and insist this is how it is. 

v. i died in a flood many years ago. 

vi. i am a girl falling asleep on the bus. i am the dying dog recognizing his master.

vii. i hurt my back doing a handstand and felt my teeth ache.

viii boyhood is ugly, i crave it. i crave it revoltingly, i sob into my bedsheets and wish i could tear out my flesh from where it doesn’t belong. i am desperate.

ix. i want to hold my friends. i want to have more friends. i do not want to scare people. i would rather scar myself than scare people. 

x. let me be soft, lord. my soul is going to eat me someday. until then, let me be soft.

[earlgaylatte]

Burnt Popcorn

I never misgender myself, Unless I’m standing in the kitchen with my mom,  Cooking popcorn a bit too long So it sits on my tongue with that bitter-salt-char Only the two of us can stand. 

When I was growing up,  The kitchen was small enough to call it A confessional booth, small enough,  To keep fathers and devils out of it,  Small enough, That male intrusion felt like sacrilege. 

One of these afternoons, I just know- I’ll come home to it expanded,  Rugs pushing neatly into the living room, Cupboards organized by ingredients  Instead of color. 

I’m not a woman, but part of me Will always be a little girl twisted  Up on the floor of the kitchen chewing Mango pits and getting caught underfoot.

Sometimes I see her in the reflection of clean pots and pans,  When I’m seasoning cast iron. I make tea and the loose lemongrass in Mom’s cup Forms her daughter’s face.

Did you have prophecies too, Mama? Or  Is that something you shed like a Second skin when you started going to that Fundie church for a boy with blue-grey eyes and A haunting grin? I want to know

If the ashes from his cigarette falling Onto your pregnant belly revealed the Spiteful bitch I’d become.

I used to identify as a girl, now,  I  identify as a witch and a bastard. I call myself things You’re too disgusted to utter out loud. 

But sometimes, I miss using your wooden spoons to burn popcorn The way we both like. I’d let you kick me off your counters  A thousand times if you’d just call me your son.

Dear Midwestern Daughter, Dear Midwestern Ghost.  One of these days I’ll hand you the dread I shouldered like Judas and teach You just how I earned this name.