I am so excited for this weekend. I’m going out to dinner with my best friend, and dog sitting, with a whole house to myself. Yesssss.

I always catch myself singing to our old song, and then I start hating myself for thinking of you.

To anyone who sees this,
I’m currently a ftm trangender, or well, starting at least. Thats what I need help with. Do you know of any cheaper end places that sell binding materials? And if youve done it before, what was it like and all? Im honestly scared shitless. I dont know really. I just need help with everything.

“Architecture”

It came up once and only once,

and it was not pleasant.

It’s not pleasant to be taken as a joke,

but I guess that’s life, eh?

There are faults with my body’s architecture.

Not just with my self esteem, or mind,

but with the mental and physical structure.

I do not see me, as I see myself,

But as something completely else.

I see boobs and chunky thighs,

but god damnit, I’m sick of this disguise.

I can take the longer hair,

and the outward belly, and my thighs,

but I can’t take the inward lie.

Due to my mom and dad’s reproductive task,

I am forced to wear a mask,

More like body cast!

I have women parts, the boobs and the V,

But what I desire, what I should have, is the D.

Well, you may ask, why not be less feminine?

Why not dress and act more masculine?

Well, I’ll tell you why. It’s my mom,

She’s got me programmed incredibly wrong.

She wants me in skirts and dresses,

frilly things that don’t cause messes.

I’m lucky I even get to wear jeans,

Are you getting what I mean?

I go along with my mom’s charade of being a woman,

but I know I was meant to be a man.

How glorious is would be to wake up,

without the constant reminder that

I am not who I want to be, meant to be.

How glorious it would be to not itch in my own skin,

to wake up and be called he and not she,

to walk out my door and talk to open minded people who won’t question me relentlessly, girl or guy?

How glorious it would be to bond this all to my chest and tuck away the constant guilt, that makes me feel like a convict.

Like it’s a crime to be who I want to, to dress how I want to. To be manly, like I want to.

But my jail cell is womanhood, and I’m sorry, but I can’t be the perfect daughter,

Would you maybe let me be your perfect son, instead?

I’ve been trying really hard to be mommy’s little girl, really hard,

but man, to put together the puzzle that is “Alyssa Marie”

and not Alex or Dylan, or whatever I could be, is so tiring.

I am so tired of trying to put together what I know is missing pieces

and it’s getting impossible to

get a refund after sixteen years to get what parts I need.

But even so, I put on these damn dresses, 

and stay away from messes,

and act like a real lady,

Until I turn eighteen, 

and I can finally be free.

I knew I loved you when you didn’t care about makeup staining your shirt. 

I’m still not used to people talking to me in the morning. I’m used to sitting alone with my headphones and djshdjajs

I don’t want to be in a world that you’re not in.

You can drown yourself, but when you know someone’s waiting for you above the water, holding breaths for you, you have to come up for air.