Punk poets #1st poem: Fake boy

Who the hell am I?

Because sometimes I’m just this actor

learning lines on a stage I never wrote,

wearing skin that feels borrowed,

like a costume hanging loose,

threads unraveling at the seams—

And gods, the weight of this pretending

pressing down like it’s my own damn body,

but it’s not quite mine yet.

I’m a fraud, they say.

A liar. A faker.

Because I don’t have the blueprint.

Because I’m still learning how to build myself

from pieces I didn’t even know existed.

I’m caught in the spaces between words:

boy, man, trans, human—

and sometimes, none of them fit.

So I stumble through this identity

like a ghost learning to haunt a new home,

calling myself by a name that feels both like a war cry and a lie.

I’m not the hero of this story yet—

I’m the work-in-progress scribbled in margins,

the rough draft no one wants to read.

And maybe I’m just a shadow

waiting to disappear—

because some days, the weight wins,

and breathing feels like drowning.

Maybe being lost means

I’ll never find myself—

just fragments fading into nothing,

another ghost in a world that moves on without me.