Through the lens of poetry, a transgender writer reflects on how their journey of constant reinvention has shaped their creativity and self-discovery.
By the time Quinn sat down at the desk, they had already filled dozens of pages with fragments of thoughts, broken verses, and lines that never quite fit together. The words came in waves—sporadic, chaotic, as if the pen were trying to outrun the storm in their mind. They had never been the type to write neatly or according to any set rule. But this collection, this strange collection of poems, was different.
For weeks, they had been scribbling words without fully understanding why they were doing it, or who the character in the poems even was. There were mentions of a figure, constantly shifting—sometimes male, sometimes female, other times something more ambiguous. There were lines about skin changing, about the ache of transformation, about the yearning for something that could never quite be named. Quinn didn’t know who that figure was, but the figure was always at the heart of the poems.
Tonight, Quinn sat in the quiet of their small apartment, a cup of lukewarm tea beside them, and sifted through the stack of crumpled paper. The lamp above flickered softly, casting long shadows on the walls. They read the first poem again, a piece that had haunted them since it was written:
"I am the silhouette of myself,
Fractured like glass,
I piece myself together each day,
But tomorrow, I will shatter again."
At first, it had felt like a metaphor, a portrayal of someone trying to hold themselves together, someone fragmented by the world’s expectations. But now, Quinn understood. The person in the poem was them. It was a picture of themselves in the moments when they tried so desperately to fit into the skin they had been assigned, only to feel the seams splitting open, leaving behind something unknown.
They moved to the next poem, their fingers trembling as they turned the pages.
"Eyes in the mirror, a fleeting gaze,
Not a stranger, but not a friend.
I wear these faces like costumes—
None of them ever truly fit."
This one had been difficult to write. It was a moment of desperation, the fear that no matter how many times Quinn tried on a new identity, nothing would ever feel like it belonged. The idea of a "true self" had always felt elusive, as if it were locked behind an ever-shifting door. But now, as they read these words, they realized—the faces they wore were part of the journey. They were not a failure to find the right one, but the proof of growth.
Quinn flipped through more poems, each one reflecting another stage of the metamorphosis they had gone through over the years. There was the poem about the first time they cut their hair short, about the first time they wore clothes that felt more like their own skin. Another poem described the silent battles with the mirror, the one they had come to hate for its cruel reflections. And another, a love letter to the self they had never dared to meet until now.
The more Quinn read, the more the truth seeped into their bones. The poems, as fragmented and disjointed as they were, were not just about someone else. They were about Quinn’s own journey—one that had not been linear, one that had been full of doubt, pain, and the deepest longing. They realized that they had been writing their own autobiography, but in a language they didn’t yet know how to speak.
Sitting back in the chair, Quinn closed their eyes, the weight of realization pressing against their chest. Writing these poems had not just been a way to capture thoughts and emotions—it had been a cathartic act, a way to free themselves from the confines they had been living in. They had been hiding, not just from the world, but from themselves.
But now, in the soft glow of the desk lamp, Quinn saw it clearly. They had been shedding old skins in every poem, finding new fragments of themselves. The metamorphosis had been happening all along, and it had taken these raw, unpolished words to see it.
Quinn looked down at the pages again, no longer feeling the dissonance between the words and the person they had tried so hard to become. They were not fractured. They were not incomplete. They were a collage, ever-shifting, ever-evolving. And that was enough.
The pen rested in their hand, poised to write one last poem—the beginning of a new chapter. The words flowed easily now, no longer burdened by uncertainty:
"I am not the person I once was,
I am not the one I will become,
I am the constant change,
The breath between the worlds,
And I will write myself anew."
For the first time in their life, Quinn felt at peace with the identity they had created. The words, once painful and jagged, had become the bridge to their true self—an unbroken chain of transformation, one poem at a time.
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