Author: poetryfest

My favorite color is pink.
It’s always been pink—
the sweet light pink that my mother wears that makes her even softer in my arms,
the bold hot pink of the long nails I have just learned how to grow without biting,
the deep dark pink on the first flag I wave for pride.
Pink is warmth, pink is safety, pink is home,
but until senior year I said my favorite color was blue then purple then black then red then
rainbow then nothing, I don’t have one.
But the truth is my favorite color is pink.

For the longest time, I lied, because
pink was girl and girl was weak so pink was weak and I wasn’t weak.
I wanted to wear long, flowing dresses that I could spin in until I saw stars but
dress was girl and girl was weak so dress was weak and I wasn’t weak.
I wanted to be a princess who fell in love with a merperson but
princess was girl and girl was weak so princess was weak and I wasn’t weak.
I look at myself now, in a pink princess dress, and I am still not weak.
But I’m not always girl, either.

My dad doesn’t understand what genderfluid is, and I don’t know how to explain to him
that I’m still his little girl, I’m just also
his little boy and his little person,
and sometimes all three at the same time.
I feel like I’ve already pushed him far enough, taking five years
to teach him what “asexual” means and how deeply I embody it,
and I worry that asking him to further expand his mind
might crack it open and leave it spilling all over the pavement.
So I let him say, “That’s my girl!” when he’s proud of me and I
leave my two names up on my dorm room door even when he comes to visit,
my little act of bravery leaving me skittish and fumbling for my keys.

My mother knows me better, correcting herself, looking confused
at the idea but smiling at me all the while, letting me buy whatever
weird shit I want from Hot Topic. She goes from “baby girl” to “baby person”
with an apology, and I love it, but it still hurts inside, the fact that she has never
called me “baby boy.” I want to be her “baby boy.”
She told me once, when we were talking about me and the jumbled mess of colors inside of me,
that I will never look like a boy.
And she sounded so sorry when she said it, and she’s right, okay, I know it, she’s right—
I will never be the kind of person who can pass well enough to be called “sir” at a gas station and
I think about that, every time I read a story where all the nonbinary characters are
androgynous and I’m sitting here in my pink princess dress, wanting to be called
a king.

I’ve been thinking so long about why,
whether it’s the fact that all my favorite characters are boys
or the fact that I hate having a chest and a period but at the end of the day
I’m not sure it matters why, because since when have those born in the right bodies had to
explain why they are who they are;
still, I look at myself in the mirror and I realize that I don’t hate my body.
I just hate the words people default to calling me because of it.

I use all pronouns, I mean that, I do.
But that means I use all pronouns,
so don’t just fall back on girl because it’s easiest,
and don’t grasp onto person because it’s safest,
because people are not made to be easy and life is not made to be safe.
Please, call me boy, just once in awhile, just every now and then, even when
I’m wearing a pink princess dress.
Please, make me
a pretty lord, too.

Mark stretches
at the beach.

The beach marks us,
stretches us each.

The tide is coming,
make room,
look at her reach.

Cut the fat from my thighs and / I will season the meat / pluck my eyes like petals and / I will hold them gently / trash them when they get cold and / I will dig their grave / use my hair to patch your sock and / I will thread the needle / when you are done / please do not leave me / I will discard the rest.

This body
This fat, fat, fat, fat, and FAT body
Am I meant to starve
“You’re like a bowling ball” They say

Well I try and try and try
Nothing works
What if I turn to throwing everything up
“Why aren’t you eating” She says

Weren’t you the same person saying im too big
220 the scale never decrease
NEVER
I was meant to starve

I was meant to be chained
No
Imprisoned in this Ugly body
I can’t look in the mirror

One second Im happy with what i look like
The next i want to cut it all off
The comments don’t get to me
Until its my mom

“Your so big don’t you ever feel ashamed of yourself” She says
Ah little does she know
I want it all to end
I want nothing to do with this fat body at all

Pop goes the button
All of a sudden
I’m too fat thats it
Why cant I just be fit

I try to squeeze my fat tummy
Its not at all funny
I’ve thought of a tummy tuck
Yeah I need some luck

To feel comfortable in
My own skin
Will that day ever come
Cause I feel numb

I see my mother
Oh brother
She’s so fat
What if I become like that

I’m lost for words
And so are the birds
I don’t know what to say
And I guess thats okay

I feel hideous
And I am dead serious
That I never feel fine
As my feelings decline

Will I ever get better
And forget her
Not let her control
My life as a whole

Cause right now the voices are loud
And their not at all proud
At what I look like
And so now they’re on strike

To get me to become skinner
And to become thinner
To get my stomach to shrink
And to make me think

To be attractive
And very active
I’m so weak I cant even fight back
And part of me thinks that’s a fact

I am a soft woman
the flesh on my stomach and
surrounding my body tells me so.
I like to give deep hugs, where
we both breath together
before letting go.
I enjoy smiles, laughter, the gentle
caress of love & joy in the air.
When I dance, I let the music flow
through my body while I release
control for a time.
When I sing, I let the words
flow out into the world, and I
sing for all who may need a prayer.
I do pray, albeit a bit differently
than I was taught to do so, for I
bow my head to the trees
and pray with the singing chickadees.
Because what is life, song, dance, joy,
love, without prayer?

I am a soft woman
and I am filled with the world.

My father’s eyes are greener than mine
Without his bright red cheeks to frame them
His hair is curlier and redder
And yet I find my own growing curlier with age
In the back, at the very base of my skull
Where my anger comes boiling up from

I avoid mirrors more often than not
I see him there and only there
His thin, tight lips looking back at me
The angry furrow in his eyebrows
His stout figure
Short, curving in only at the waist slighting
Only to disappear in the wideness of his legs
More strength in his frame than I will ever have to show for it

And sometimes, I hear his humor in my voice
When the joke grows too dark
And I feel the cruelty that burns under my skin
Burning him that pinkish red color

He’d tell me that was God’s doing
God’s way of showing me where I came from
But if that’s God’s doing,
I’d assume he did it knowing
That some fathers have nothing more to give than what they are
So instead, God gave me all of mine
Everything that my father is or ever could have been
To sit in my bones
To drive the ache in my body
Because he knew it was all some men can bare to give

If you asked me, though,
The spawn, the most human half of him,
I’d tell you it was the son
The knower of this agony
Of having a father
That knows only violence for you
That’s more you than you are

Reflections stare, from the mirror’s gaze
A critic’s voice, that never fades
It whispers lies, of imperfection’s might
A distorted view, of beauty’s light

The scales scream numbers, that dictate my worth
A never-ending cycle, of self-doubt and mirth
I’m trapped in a prison, of societal norms
A beauty standard, that’s unattainable and warped

I see the airbrushed, and Photoshopped faces
Unrealistic expectations, in virtual spaces
The comparison game, a losing battle I fight
A constant reminder, of my perceived flaws and fright

But what of the beauty, that’s unique and divine?
The scars, the stretch marks, the curves that are mine?
The strength in my muscles, the resilience in my soul?
The beauty that’s within, that makes me whole?

I’ll rise above, the noise and the pain
Embracing my flaws, and loving myself again
I’ll focus on health, not on a number or size
I’ll celebrate my uniqueness, and let my spirit rise

My body is strong, my body is brave
My body is beautiful, in every single way
I’ll honor its wisdom, and listen to its voice
I’ll love and accept myself, with a heart that makes a choice

To see beyond the surface, to the beauty that’s real
To love and accept myself, and let my spirit heal

I used to run without a care,
So light upon my feet,
A boy who never had to stare
At mirrors in defeat.

But sickness came, and with it stole
The freedom that I knew.
They said the cure would take control,
And I had no say to choose.

A simple pill, they promised me,
Would help to make me whole.
But what they didn’t let me see
Were the ways it took its toll.

My face grew round, my hands felt thick,
My shirts became too tight.
I watched my body change so quick,
No effort could fight.

At first, I swore it wasn’t real,
That maybe it would pass.
But soon, I learned the weight I’d feel
Would root itself so fast.

And when I walked inside the halls,
Their laughter found my name,
Their whispers bouncing off the walls
And branding me with shame.

I tried to hide inside my clothes,
To shrink where none could see,
But every look, and every pose,
Felt foreign now to me.

I’d hear them mock the way I ate,
As if I had a choice.
They’d say my body bore the weight
Of my own selfish voice.

They didn’t see the nights I spent
Just staring at my skin,
Wishing I could still present
The boy I’d once been in.

They didn’t hear my mother’s voice
Saying, Health is what should matter.
But still, I felt I had no choice,
My heart still torn and tattered.

I clenched my teeth, I learned to smile,
To laugh along as well,
But every joke just stacked the pile
Of things I’d never tell.

I longed to run like I had done,
But moving felt so wrong.
The weight I bore had dimmed the sun
And stole where I belonged.

And yet, despite the pain inside,
The stares that left me weak,
I knew that I would have to find
The strength I couldn’t speak.

I wasn’t just the boy they saw,
A frame too large to love—
I was a soul, a beating heart,
A mind still strong enough.

So slowly, though the days were long,
I learned to lift my chin.
The weight was there, but I was strong,
And shame would never win.

Their words could never break my core,
Though bruises still remain.
My body’s more than what they swore—
It’s mine, despite the pain.

And maybe I will never be
The boy I was before,
But now, at least, I finally see—
I’m worth so much more

stick figures
make no impact

hangman game, a slim
word, no one guessed

stuff myself full of more
than small countries need

wretch, purge, empty as
a stone jar

I am bones
rattled

start again
next day