A word from the poet: Hello, my name is Aaryn, I’m sixteen and use he/him pronouns. My twitter handle is @Apricotbuncakes and my wattpad (where I post my poetry) is @apricotbuncakes.This poetry is about my experience as a trans man, specifically being told I’m not a real guy. Trigger Warning: Transphobia, T-slur, mentions of vomiting.
“The Lies a Can of Soup Can Tell”
I have been eating bowls of lies my whole life.
My bowl of alphabet spaghetti spelled out the words “YOU ARE A GIRL”
Or… maybe that was my parents. It’s hard to tell when the words have been shoved down my throat. My face messy with pasta sauce (or are those tears?).
Either way, something is in my eyes, and I can no longer see myself in the mirror, and the blurry image of the nutrition facts makes out a small paragraph of why the words I just ate are true (and I’m wrong for thinking otherwise).
It’s funny. Everyone around me must assume that I can’t feed myself, because I find that these words keep getting forced down to my stomach. And then another person sees me and feeds me more, continuing the cycle.
“YOU CANT BE A BOY”
“BASIC BIOLOGY SAYS YOURE A GIRL”
Well guess what! Those words didn’t change the fact that I’m a boy, and have been thrown up and back out, my body rejecting what you say and tried to force me to conform to.
I am not hungry for something sour, uncooked, and frankly unoriginal in terms of bullying.
I long for my dessert, covered in blue sprinkles, because now that I have made room, I can clean my face, and finally make out who I am in the mirror, and I can see what I want.
I want blue sprinkles on my cake, and icing shaping the letters “He’s a boy” in beautiful calligraphy letters.
But it would be rude of me not to share.
Oh? You don’t like this flavor?
Sorry! Guess you’ll just have to suffer. Open wide!