It used to be that we got food just by finding some and eating it. Just by existing did we have the "authorization" to eat and survive. Now, in our imperfect, illusory "human world," we are only "authorized" to eat food if we have the proper amount of special paper and little metal discs to do so. In other words, we have to be worthy to get food and survive.

Not anymore is food available for all who need it, now people own food, and people are in control of the food people eat. Fine. So what determines a person's worth? It's a bunch of factors, most of which people are not in control over: where they grew up, which family they were born in, what school they went to, what country they were born in, the culture they were reared in, etc. Most people in poverty didn't choose to be in poverty. Most impoverished people aren't at fault for their lack of wealth. And they starve because they aren't worthy.

We don't own food. We don't own people.

The sun is shining,

Yet all I see is black.

The pastor

Rambles on,

Speaking words

That mean nothing

Other than for everyone

To feel closure-

But that is the complete opposite of what I feel.

There has been a gaping chasm

Since you died

And I have been teetering on the edge of it,

Tempting fate,

Peering over the edge and wondering

If the plunge would truly be worse than living

There are flowers,

And they are scentless,

But to me they smell like death.

They line the pews

And their petals scatter among the aisle,

And they remind me I'm falling apart.

People are listening and there are tears

Pooling at the feet of demise.

Just because you can't see my pain,

Slicing down the skin of my cheeks,

Does not mean that there aren't shadows

Ripping away at my viscera.

My vocal cords,

Are shredded.

I can't scream any longer,

And still no one has heard me.

I am lost in the remnants that you left behind

And I don't think I'll ever get free.

I want someone who will

Find the every stroke of my pencil to be fascinating,

My every step to be extraordinary.

I want someone who will

Cherish the every beat of my heart,

And love each of the hairs on my head as individuals.

We all know what it is.

The singularity of all pleasantries.

I'm fine.

No.

Listen.

If we keep saying this,

We're ruined.

The power of complacency,

Here.

Nurtured in repetition,

These words

I'm fine,

Have unbelievable capabilities.

You see, if

We keep saying this,

There will be no

Second chance.

That is, once

We convince ourselves it's true.

Locked together in tight embrace,

They were the darkness, the infinite space.

The primordial parents were intertwined

Between them, their children, in the blackness, confined.

Clustered and cramped they were wedged for an age

Growing bitter, resentful, they hated their cage.

Together they plotted for this union to cease

“We must pull them apart, we must make them release!”

So they each of them pushed and they each of them pried

But the parents pulled tighter, their children denied.

The first born, the fierce, he refused defeat

He laid on his back and pushed with his feet.

The oldest, the angriest, cursed out of spite

“Enough of this darkness! Let there be light!”

And the lovers, as one, from the beginning, the start

By their children’s own doing they were pulled apart.

The father, he grieved and so did his wife

As light burst forth and out of darkness came life.

He lamented his loss for there would be no other

She fell with her children and became the Earth Mother.

The children became gods of the Oceans and Seas

Of Fire, of War, of Forests and Trees.

But the Father, his dominion, Lord of Stars and Skies

Still mourns his love with the rain from his cries.

And Earth Mother, she struggles, and makes the land quake

She longs for her love to sooth her heartbreak.

Still they call for each other, but to no avail

And that is the beginning, the creation tale.

They ask too many questions.

Why do you pick at your skin?

Why is your hand shaking?

Are you okay?

Do you want me to come with you?

What’s going on?

Do you need help?

Are you sick?

Do you want to go home?

Why won’t you say anything?

What’s on your computer screen?

What are you reading?

Are you okay?

What is your problem?

Are you ill?

Why can’t you come to class?

Why aren’t you paying attention?

What are you writing?

What are you drawing?

Are you okay?

What are you listening to?

Why did you come so late?

Are you okay?

How is she?

Will she be okay?

Are you okay?

What’s it like?

Are you okay?

How bad is it?

Are you okay?

Let me pick. Let me shake. Let me cry. Let me write. Let me feel.

Just stop asking about it.

I’m fine.

Don't cry over spilled milk

Unless it's from your left breast,

And you're feeding your baby but

Your nipples are aching from the latch,

And you listen to them cry,

And now there's no will to carry on.

                                                           Don't cry over spilled milk

                                                           Unless it’s from her left breast,

                                                           And you’re trying to communicate that

                                                           Your stomach is completely empty,

                                                           And you listen to your mother cry,

                                                           And now she feeds you with a bottle.

Don't cry over spilled milk

Unless it's in your fine china,

And you threw it enraged by

Your now ex-partner's infidelity,

And you picked the nearest thing to you,

And now this puddle is the only thing remaining.

                                                         Don't cry over spilled milk

                                                         Unless it’s mixed with broken glass,

                                                         And now you’re thirsty because

                                                         Your drink is gone,

                                                         And you know your mother wants what’s best,

                                                         And now she goes by mom and dad interchangeably.

Don't cry over spilled milk

Unless it's your first Christmas Eve alone,

And you've said Santa's coming so

Your little ones won't sleep,

And you spent your last paycheck,

And now there's no electricity for the tree.

                                                        Don't cry over spilled milk

                                                        Unless it’s the first Christmas Eve without dad,

                                                        And you don’t think Santa’s coming but

                                                        Your mom insists on laying out milk,

                                                        And you don’t want to ruin the magic for her,

                                                        And now she sits under a dark tree.

Don't cry over spilled milk

Unless it's your last cup,

And you've used it to cook

Your last box of mac and cheese,

And you knocked the pot over,

And now there's no dinner until tomorrow.

                                                        Don't cry over spilled milk 

                                                        Unless it’s the last cup,

                                                        And your mother is on the floor and

                                                        Your mother is crying too,

                                                        And you watch her burn herself,

                                                        And now she can’t look you in the eyes.

-In sixth grade I cried because I started to develop underarm hair. I shaved it, not knowing you needed shaving cream, and it burned for a week. I haven't loved myself since.

-In seventh grade I told myself I was skipping school so I wouldn't have to change in front of the other boys. I didn't, and ended up changing in the bathroom stall for half the year. Kids made fun of me, so I stopped and changed in front of my locker. Every time, I stared st the wall and hated myself a little bit more, lost a little more dignity every time. I haven't loved myself since.

-In eighth grade I took a trip to Washington D.C. to learn more about our country. Naturally, I had to stay with another boy in the hotel rooms, because a boy and a girl cannot be trusted together. The first night I stifled sobs under the bed covers because, however little bit of intimacy it was sharing a room, I was not comfortable with it. I haven't loved myself since.

-my freshman year was a repeat of my eighth. My band took a trip to Dallas, Texas for a biannual competition. I had to stay with three other boys in a two-bed hotel room. I cried because I couldn't even confide in my female friends in private, because I wasn't even allowed to enter their rooms. I haven't loved myself since.

-my sophomore year I told my mom I was transgender- a quivering fact I'd known about myself for a while. She'd always said she'd support me no matter what, so I was taken aback when she said I was on my own because she didn't want to have anything to do with it. We never talked about that night again. I haven't loved myself since.

-this year, now a junior, I wore the guard makeup for my color guard performances, and a lot of people complimented me on how good I was at cosmetics. I know it was a little heavy and i mainly looked like a drag queen- not the girl I wanted to be- but I felt beautiful and was ecstatic.

-this year, now a junior, I know that me being transgender is not a phase. It is a fact about me- like that I have brown hair or love Taylor Swift- and it will never change. I am not open or presenting, and I'm not sure I ever will be, but i do know i will do everything in my power to help other minorities and people like me.

-today, I am a closeted trans teen. I have had to grow up a little quicker than the other kids, but it has only made me more mature and more versatile than the other kids. When we're pushed down, I am the first to stand up. When we are abused, I am the first to fight back. And when we are oppressed, I am the first one to riot.

-today, I am trans. And I will not let you walk on my rights as a human being.