Deadbeat Kids

we could run from these deadbeat towns
we could run to the horizon, and watch
the silhouettes behind us shrink until
they're nothing more.

we could pack our things and leave tonight.
we could run away from the world we hate.
we could rush away, catch a train, catch a
plane, until ants are all we see.

we could run to each other, fall into each
other's arms, cup cheeks, mesh lips. we
could join bodies, entwine our legs,
interlock our fingers.

but we never will.

we're just a couple of deadbeat kids
stuck in our deadbeat towns
living our deadbeat lives.

and nothing will ever change

Faded

The prompt for this was "You are a kid's imaginary friend. He's growing up. You're fading away."
Based on my own experiences as a trans person, this formed into my mind and I had to write this poem.
Please be warned this has a transphobia trigger warning.

He has always needed me in his life; I’m the one who is strong for him, the one who holds him up.
I am there when others kick him down, and ridicule him, when they tell him the things that aren’t
true; the things that no one like my boy wants to here. I am the one to wipe his tears when he lays
in a pink bedroom, never changed since he was a child, crying himself to sleep as he struggles with
his life.

What do you even struggle with, I hear people ask him, as the days become a never ending blur. You have good grades, you have a house over your head, everyone loves you, people want to be you and
you’re upset? How selfish of you. The words make his tears grow stronger, but only when I am the
single person around him. I hold him in my arms and remind him of all the things he wants, but can
never have.

See, the people around him don’t realise that he has plenty to be upset about. Distraught even. He has
chronic depression, but no one knows why. They don’t understand the pain of having to wear the wrong
school uniform, or to be looked at in the wrong way, or to be terrified to be kicked out of your own
house. To be stuck with this secret about who you are that you can never tell anyone, or risk your life
in the town you live in.

The people around him don’t understand when he frowns at the wrong name, the wrong pronouns,
the wrong life. They’re comfortable in their bodies, and they could never grasp what plagues him,
deep in the night when the days have been rough and the people have been harsh. They’ve never been
too harsh, no no, don’t get the wrong idea. They just don’t know and they can’t know, his life would
never be the same.

So I am always the one he needs in his life, the only one he can ever rely on. The image of what he wants
to look like. Tall, bearded, masculine, instead of his small, petite feminine frame. He answers to she,
when his soul yearns to answer to he. He uses a female restroom, but glances at the men’s as he glides
through the door. He knows that if he did, he’d be yelled at, probably beaten up, or at the least, removed
by security.

One day, I give him the courage he needs to speak out. He finds his parents, sitting at the kitchen table.
They’re laughing and smiling, and he nervously smiles as he sits down. Mom, Dad, I need to talk to you.
They nod for him to continue, their smiles unwavering, and their heads tilted. He takes a breath and he
says it out loud. Mom, Dad, I’m not your little girl. I’m a boy, and I’ve know this for my entire life. I
want to be who I am.

The silence deafens him and then he flinches as his mother stands. You are my little girl, enough of this
talk. You are a girl, you were born a girl. Get off the internet so much, you’re learning bad things. His
father says nothing other than stop being so pathetic, grow up. He slowly stands and returns to his
room, heart heavy. I’m there, of course, sat on his bed to give him support. For once, he doesn’t look
at me.

That was three years ago and now I float here, unmoving. I watch him everyday as he drifts through life,
unhappier each day. He frowns more than he smiles, and his parents send him to therapy. He fakes
smiles and wears his dresses, like the perfect little girl his parents want. He keeps his hair long, and lets
his mother plait it. She takes him shopping for skirts and stocking and he swallows the lump in his
throat.

I faded, that day. The day his parents shunned him. The image of what he wanted to be, the image of
what he needed to be. He couldn’t look at me any more without feeling ashamed, without feeling wrong.
I’m still here though, at the back of his mind, like an old comfort blanket waiting to be found again. And
when he deems the time is right, I’ll be here to encase him in my arms again. For now, he’ll wear the
dresses, and be a little daddy’s girl.

Fool When It Comes to You

Currently Listening: “F.U” - Little Mix

I know that there’s someone in a bed with you somewhere,
I know it deep in my heart as the fancy meal I learned to
cook specially for you grows cold and the candles melt low.
You said you would be here early, just for our anniversary,
and yet you texted me just five minutes ago. Staying at
work late. Eat without me x.

I glance at the clock and I know that it’s wrong. That
you’re lying. Your work finished three hours ago, so
why would you only be texting me now? You’re easily
distracted, you would have texted me before now, when
you lost concentration on the work you’re currently doing,
the countless spreadsheets that you enter data into.

I can only imagine the shitty motel room you’ve taken
him to; crisp white sheets, stained underneath a black
light. They probably charge by the hour as you mess
around and tangle in the sheets. My heart begins to

sink and again, I find myself on the phone to my
mother, tears streaming down my face and ugly sobs
choking my oxygen supply.

She says the same thing as last time, ditch him,

he doesn’t see what an amazing man he has in
you. It’s like I’m listening to a broken record.
He doesn’t deserve one tear from you, or one
second of your life. It’s time to be strong and to
walk out. I consider it and I thank her. I put the phone
down. I dump the plates still with their food in the sink.
I don’t care when your good porcelain shatters.

I begin the walk up the stairs when the door unlocks, and
I falter in my steps to turn around. You’re staring at me,

smiling as you take your coat off, hanging it up on the

hooks by the front door. You walk towards the bottom of

the stairs and you open your arms to me. I tell myself no,
this is it, he’s hurt me for the last time. But I feel my resolve

dissolve inside of me.

His smile and eyes, shining away in dim light, it’s my weakness.
I can’t hope to ever fight back against that charm. It’s no
wonder he has a different man every week, in some shitty
motel – maybe he takes them to a glossy hotel, somewhere
better than he’d ever take you – tears flood my eyes. Sobs
once more escape my throat and I run down the stairs.

His arms envelope me and I sob into his shoulder. It hurts, I feel
my heart break as I let him silently drag me back into his life, to
take away every inch of strength I ever had. I hate this, I hate
myself. No. I hate him. I hate every inch of him. But as he carries
me upstairs to our bedroom, my body craves him and I sob again.

We make love for a few hours and we collapse on the bed, curled
together, messy, sweaty and content. But neither of us are content,
and we both know it’s a lie. He knows I know, and I know he’s not
happy with just me. And as we lie there, falling asleep together,
I make a sleepy memo to slash his fancy car tyres in retaliation.
For now, I’ll curl into his arms, and I’ll let myself believe the
lie he whispers in my ear.

I love you

Rain

"Write a poem about being caught in the rain"

Raindrops keep falling on my head.
The old lyric sticks in my head as I
walk the old alley way through to my
house. The rain should bother me, but
it doesn’t any more. I’ve been caught in
too many rain showers to give a single
care at this point. The rain washes away
my struggles, and mixes with my tears.
It takes away my pain and my troubles,
and leaves me feeling refreshed.

My hair is stuck to my head, my clothes
are drenched, I’m soaked to the bone,
but I find somewhere to sit. My
cigarette is soaked; it’s the only
downside to loving the feeling of
the rain cleansing me of my
issues. I smile as I look up to the
sky, and I can’t help but laugh.

I’m free, for now, until the sun
returns. Until the warmth from
the sky boils the fire under the
cauldron of my sins and they
overflow into my veins.

Until then, I am free.