spoken poem to this day

Love isn’t about how you feel about someone else.

It’s about how they make you feel about yourself.

Year One:
‘Tell me about yourself,’ he says. And at first, I want to say 'Well, my favorite book is the thesaurus. I read it every day (the electronic version - at least - since it can be updated every minute). There’s a word of the day and I make it my mission to write something new every day. I can find definitions and antonyms and synonyms all in one place. It’s my favorite thing.’ But instead, I say 'I like to read and write, how about you?’

Year Two:
'Where do you want to go?’ He asks. And at first, I want to say 'Please, take me somewhere different this time. I never need to spend money with you. I’ll bring something from home for us to sit and eat in the back of your car with the sunroof up watching the stars. I want to tell you that September is my favorite month because it is my birthday and I know I’m biased, but I think that’s the month when everything around us aligns. I want to close my eyes and talk to your soul in the darkness with nothing but the faint light of a thousand stars illuminating us.’ But instead, I say 'I don’t know. Anything.’

Year Three:
'Stop acting like this.’ He demands. And at first, I want to say 'Can’t you see that I just want you to try harder? That I need you to love me the way you used to because I haven’t changed a single thing, yet you’ve demolished it all. I miss our fire, our heat, our passion, our comfort, our peace, our everything.’ But instead, I say 'Don’t call me, again.’

Year Four:
'I miss you,’ He admits. And at first, I want to say 'I miss you, too. My heart weeps at the sound of your name and I’d rearrange all of my organs to find enough space for another shot of disaster in me. I miss how touching your skin was all it took for me to create symphonies in your name and poems in your memory. I miss the taste of you. I know there won’t ever be a quick fix for me, for us, or for this.’ But instead, I say 'I know.’
—  Pride // n.b. 

She was poetry.

Yet he was illiterate.

But they connected on a soul-ular level.

A. J. Ibrahim (@voicelessconfessions)

Tell her:
1. When she opens her eyes in the morning, she will see sunlight peering through the mahogany stained shades. The sunlight will cascade down the bottom of your jaw and right between your closed eyes and she will - very briefly - wonder which one of us you’re dreaming about.

2. When she brews your coffee in the morning, she will add three spoons of sugar, instead of one and a half. It’s sweeter than the way I made it and you like it this way but you will get sick of it, eventually.

3. When she showers, you’ll fix your tie and your hair, and you’ll grab the briefcase on your way out before you leave. You’ll stop and turn your head down and to the right, staring into nothingness, wondering if she will sing the way I used to. If she will sing at all.

4. When you are at work, you’ll run your fingers over the corners of your desk, remembering every visit, every fight, and everything I’ve ever made you feel. You still have my love notes tucked in the back of the drawers in your desk.

5. When she comes home at night, she will find you on the roof and ask you why you’re there. And instead of climbing up there, like I would, she would tell you to come down. But she doesn’t know that it’s the only place you can think. She doesn’t know that it’s the landmark of your confusion. And how many nights have you sat on the roof since you left me, for her?

6. Tell her every childhood memory you have without mentioning me. See if you can work around me; if you can make me disappear from the happiest memories of your life. And when you go to bed that night, tell her that you love her. Tell her that you need her. Do not let her hear you call her by my name as you drift off to sleep.. like yesterday or the night before that.

7. Tell her I warned her about me. A love like this, a love like ours, would never die that easily.
—   The other one. / n.b.
and she’s too scared to get close to anyone, because anyone that ever said, “i’ll be there” left her with a broken heart.

I started testosterone injections in June of 2016.

Now, that was a huge accomplishment for me, but it was also the beginning of me having to navigate uncharted territory.

Most of the changes were smooth.

Voice cracks, body hair, bottom growth, acne,

The usual trans guy on T cocktail.

But come August I was rocking a crustache that should never have seen the light of day.

You know what I’m talking about,

When the hair on your lip is dark and in a really thin line,

And it kinda looks like you drank really rich hot chocolate and didn’t wipe your mouth.

Yeah, that.

It was approximately 2 in the morning when I noticed this atrocity on my face.

I was taking selfies and binge watching Netflix.

At first I was so excited.

It was like-

OH! I am a Man now!

There is hair on my face!

It didn’t totally register that I still looked like I was 13 years old  until I got to the bathroom and viewed it in good lighting.

I knew I needed to remove it from my face.

But faces are weird, and I had no fucking clue how to shave one.

I hadn’t shaved any part of my body in years.

I had only ever removed hair from my legs and my armpits and it always happened in the shower with a bright pink razor that had soap around the edges.

This was a different ball game. Faces aren’t even shaped like legs or armpits or vaginas.

The edges are more sharp and curves are different.

And the razors are different too.

There was a blue razor in my bathroom.

It belonged to my father.

It wasn’t the first time this razor had been in my hands, but it was the first time it was going to touch my face.

The blades were already familiar with my skin from late nights of cutting and crying and other things I don’t want to admit that I did.

Using a razor to shave was new to me.

You know, most boys have a father to teach them how to shave when the time comes.

I had a father too, but he didn’t think I was his son,

And he sure as hell wasn’t gonna teach his daughter how to shave her face at two-o-clock in the morning on a Wednesday.

So, naturally, I turned to the most masculine person I know.

He is 6’2”, an athlete, a huge dork, and he has killer facial hair.

No, really. He honestly looks hot as fuck and rocks everything he has.

But he also shaves.

So my dumb ass snapchats this boy at 2 in the morning.

I sent him a black photo with the caption

“Can you teach me to shave?”

While I was waiting for a response, I cried.

The last time I held a razor in my hands I destroyed my body.

This time, I’m building it up.

I slice my skin because I hate the body I was given,

And this time I’m shaving to embrace what my body can do.

It’s so fucking weird.

He responds with

“You get a razor and move it over the hair and it goes away you dipshit”

So I did.

But I definitely did not do it right.

I came out of it with the hair gone, but with blood running down my face and red marks under my nose.

No one told me that you had to use shaving cream AND water.

No one told me a lot of things about being a boy.

I covered up the gash in my face with makeup until it went away.

I felt dirty.

I felt like I was doing something wrong,

Like I needed to hide.

I thought I was done hiding.

I was so ashamed that I didn’t know what I was doing

And I was mad that I couldn’t ask my father for help

And I was sad that I never got to experience this the way so many other boys get to.

I taught myself to hide again.

But my friend made me stop sitting on my ass feeling sorry for myself.

He sent me step by step videos of himself shaving

So I could follow along the next time I had to.

My best friend was a stand in for my asshole father

And he taught me to love my body.

My body with the too big boobs

And the micro penis that is my clitoris

And the new hair

And the voice cracks

And everything else that comes along with my physical being.

As the gash in my face healed, so did my confidence.

I knew very well that I was an idiot who didn’t know to use shaving cream,

But I also knew that teenage boys are generally idiots,

So I was right where I was supposed to be.

Crustache by Emmett

Breathe in.
Breathe out.
The day inflates like lungs.
Exhale; lost my innocence.
Inhale; lost my honour.
Wisdom preaches: must you cast stones?
You became treacherous; I lost my innocence.
You became cunning; I lost my honour.
You showed me this path.
My desperation just walked on it.
You set the path on fire.
I had nowhere to run but doom.
As the day inflates like lungs.
Karma knows.
Fate is etched.
With each exhale and inhale.
I will become the fire.
I will become all the pain.
You will dissolve into thin air.
You will burn into ashes.
As the day inflates like lungs.
What goes around, will come around.
—  When they burn all of your paths and leave you to walk the path of desperation and negativity // Hina Syeda
Loving somebody who you know loves somebody else and no longer loves you is what turns love into something thats so painful it could be called torture.
—  VoicelessConfessions // love & something

‘What’s the most embarrassing thing about you?’ you asked.

It was hard to just pick one. Sure, I was a little clumsy and yes I stuttered, but neither of those things seemed to be the right answer. 

‘It’s the fact that I paint a picture of a black hollow heart when in reality it is whole and sensitive. It’s the fact that I go to sleep at night - a bitter agnostic - who still prays for the world to get better and for strangers to be happy.
The most embarrassing thing about me is that I pretend to be something I’m not and I still end up hurt in the process. How naive is that?

—  n.b. 

The first thought that goes through your head is, “Was I not good enough?”

“Was there something wrong with the way I loved?”


You’re filled with a blinding red rage that you can’t see through that is like the clatter of banging steel pots and pans, constantly asking him, “Why did you do this to me?”

When that rage settles, a sense of grief envelopes every fibre of your being.

You first notice it when he stops responding to your “I love you"s

Never fall in love with someone who has a history of cheating. You feel like you can change them, that your love will make them a better person, but you turn into just another notch in their belt, another woman he used and left on the side of the road, bleeding and broken.

You start blaming yourself for it. You start wondering why you were never enough. You stop trusting anyone who is trying to love you better, to give you what you deserve. Because you believe you deserved what happened to you.

I never wrote about this before because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of ruining me.

I was not surprised but I was highly disappointed.

I felt utterly lonely, like I was never meant to be loved and I told myself that there’s no point in crying because what’s done is done.

It’s been more than 6 months since that has happened, and I found myself in the arms of someone new. Someone who has held my hand and promised me the world and strives really hard to give me everything he can.

It does get better. The grief in your bones that filled you with an ache that made you feel like you’d swallowed poison, fades.

It gets better.

Tamarind Fall; On being cheated on.