every day, I look in the mirror
to see a face
with bags under his eyes,
dried tears spilling from the hurt
on his already beaten up face
as pink words stain every inch of
blue bit by bit.
“you’ll never be a real boy.”
the words pierce his lips.
“you haven't had surgery yet.”
it creates deep stitches across his chest.
“you don't have the right parts.”
it chokes him, rendering him silenced.
“you’ll never pass.”
like an arrow to the heart, all he can do is cry.
thick as paint, from strangers to close friends,
they slather on more and more pink over the
ugly blue he’s worked so hard to get.
the pink begins to swallow him whole,
not a trace of blue skin to be seen,
a boy sucked into a world of
“you’re not real”
and “it's all in your head”
leaves him to die in a pretty magenta pool of
his own thoughts and others opinions,
drowning every bit that used to be hopeful
into nothing but a blood-stained corpse.
an empty shell only filled with
put-down after put-down
until that boy no longer exists.
and in his place is the girl
everyone wants to see
except for him.

“im not hurting you
so why do you continue to hurt me?”
he whispers out in an oh-so quiet mumble

as his own identity will never be heard

in a society like this.