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Milisha

Milisha

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Published by Allyneed

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Published by: Allyneed on Sep 24, 2009
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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12/23/2012

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Milisha Magazine
Issue 1
A Gender Terror Magazine
Enlightenment from a Gender Terrorist- http://milishamagazine.com
 
Milisha is a brought to you by Adelaide Knowles, a disgruntled memberof the community at large, an undercover menace to the
 heteronormative
.If you support this magazine or wish to be voiced in a rather terrifyingworld, then make yourself known, grab an alias and puncture the boundaries and limits you fear to challenge alone.Yes, I am the person in the photographs
. It’s for art, liberation and never
saying sorry for being yourself. The poems however were found 
 lounging around the internet, sorry I havn’t credited.
2008.
Contactallyneeds@gmail.com or visithttp://milishamagazine.com.Accredits all the trans* people out there who are alive, surviving thriving and diving.
 
You don’t know who I am
 
You don’t see the ten
sion rise in me
You don’t see the slave I will be
 Chained by unbroken, forgettable pastDeep throating all my wordsScraping hands across the outsideBleeding internally for all its trash
You don’t know who I am
 
You don’t feel the pain deep inside of me
 Yo
u don’t feel me choking in the sea
 Swallowing my life, just to be freeClimbing the fence of fireBleeding externally
I am hurt that you don’
 t love me, when I love you all so much.
I’m sorry you won’t get to feel,
 the love that is in my 
 touch. I’
 m doing this to survive, and my heart is bruised andaching, b
ecause you’re making me say goodbye. I’m not sorry that I can’
 t be the man you all want me to be.
I’msorry that you can’t accept me for being me
. Goodbye my family, Goodbye!
They look at me, they call me gay, but I am not
gay, I’m a natural t
eenage girl- I grow angry.They look at me and tell me to wait, I havewaited and waited, yet they slow me down, alittle help and I could succeed.
I’m sick of being alone, away from everyone
 and mself. I stare
 
You are the air that I breatheLove overflowingThe gentle light I seeAn angel ever glowingUnlock these chains that bindGently, ever so gentlyFor hearts are fragile
 And you now hold the only one I own.
No box to tick to send nothing concrete nothing certain. My dinner is cooked and not eaten. My arms have strength but are not strong enough. My rhymes are little,
I couldn’t find the page.
Forward me on, somewhere I can be me, forward me on where I can feel calm, forward m o to omhr.
Using these wordsNot to belittle womenNot to mock themNot to speak about women at all To speak of ourselvesUnnamed regions Rose Pink and rust fire Beyond the stern arrogant borders of manhood.
 
 
She was sitting in a room alone, with 
another 17 people
watching her. She was here for  the same reason the others were, to grieve. She had lost a child, one she had known her  entire life, it was her daughter, the daughter she thought about as a child, and the daughter  that gave her hope when she was the most 
upset
. This daughter who has a name, and all  the things a loved child should have, never had a chance to 
live
, not like the other girls,because she had a transsexual mother, she was never born, but carried to full term for many years.She went to school, and through puberty and graduated high school, she never saw the sun.She did it all from within the womb of her mother, who never knew she was real, never knew  she had a full life for which she was 
thankful
 and grateful for. She played with me, and  she danced and we sang. We studied and went through a lot of strife. We grew up  together until eventually we could recognize our lives parallel to one another. Some of my  happiest thoughts were of her, they helped me through transition and even when I was  striving for equality at school and work. And then one day I met her, she was sitting  across the room from me, and my thoughts were of that life and so were hers, we smiled at  each other until it was time to leave Her dying wish was see me again. And it w 
 as her mother’s responsibility to bury her 
 daughter.
Not all mothers grieve in the same way, sometimes it’s a 
secret
when no one else 
 chooses to believe it. I don’t want to bury my children, but I will have to let her go, to 
 that place where the death dances.
 
BABYILOVEYOU

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