Poeaxtry's Poetry Prism

Spell. Stone. & Sparks that Ignite Change

Tag: self acceptance

A Thousand Times: A Poetic Reflection on Growth and Self-Discovery
This poem, “A Thousand Times,” is a heartfelt reflection on personal growth, identity, and the journey of self-discovery. It explores the desire to reach back in time to encourage your younger self while celebrating the resilience and courage it takes to embrace who you truly are.

“A Thousand Times”

Brave girl, you have a beautiful
soul…
brave little girl

y
o
u

are worth far more than you know
and oh,
the places you will go

I have wished a thousand
times
for the ability to travel back in
time

to let you know

that w
e

Made it.

You just had to give life a try.

Oh,

And…

Realize that you’re a guy.

That,

was always enough.

A Thousand Times encourages readers to reflect on their own journeys of self-discovery and resilience. It’s a reminder that embracing identity, learning to trust oneself, and recognizing your worth are victories worth celebrating. This poem is both an homage to the past and a celebration of the present, highlighting the strength it takes to grow and accept oneself fully.

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September 25, 2025
Boxers and Blood – A Transmasc Truth Bomb About Hormones and Periods
Shark Week

It’s strangely funny how you can forget you’re trans. Suddenly, your body reminds you like a blaring, blood-soaked alarm clock. I missed my shot this week. Life got busy, I got distracted, and my calendar reminder decided to be a useless little ghost. Well to be honest the reminder I probably ignored. Per Axton usual. So now I’m sitting in a puddle of regret and crimson at 11:00 in the morning. As if I don’t work a night shift again. Ew. I took care of the mess before I started this blog post I’m not that deranged.

Last night I had to leave work early. Lunch break turned into a chaotic pilgrimage to Walmart. A 22-minute drive one way, shopping time not included. You know how wild it is to shop for “feminine hygiene” when you’re ten years into hormones? Obviously they all think they are for a lady. It’s not embarrassingly obvious they are mine or anything . It’s just surreal. Like borrowing a body that doesn’t know it’s retired from this kind of work.

Always Sneaky

I’m never prepared. You’d think I would be. But that’s the weirdest, most tender part of all this… sometimes I actually forget I’m trans. I forget that my body has shadow memories. I forget that skipping a shot can wake up something ancient and bleeding inside me. It’s almost peaceful, until it isn’t.

So here I am. Slept maybe three hours. Woke up drenched. Could double as a crime scene. It’s not. It’s just my boxers and a pair of shorts I really liked..

And I could scream, or laugh, or write about it. Today I choose to write.

Because this too is part of the joy, the horror, the mess, the miracle. The full, absurd ride of being me.

But by far the least funny part is the way I swear the cramps hurt more now. As if the goddess herself is reminding me where I came from.

Trigger Warning

TW: for those late to the party. This post mentions menstruation, dysphoria, and hormone disruption. It’s listed clearly. My posts are raw and unfiltered. Also, I have a large list of potential TWs posted. I may just pop into them at any given time (also noted). I don’t reiterate them for every single post. Neither of us want that. I put a decent amount of time into listing every and any trigger I could potentially cover. And I phoned a friend for help.. thank you KYYYYY REEEEEEAAAA!!! But if you need a tw every time for every trigger I have some news for you about life offline…. You might not be ready for this side of the internet if you need a trigger warning. This is about the reality of a transmasc body that sometimes bleeds. But let me be clear I in no way aim to offend, or trigger anyone intentionally. This is just where I’m me without (repeated) warnings. ‼

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June 8, 2025
Becoming Axton: A Journey from Arielle to Authentic Self
I used to flinch at the sound of that name.

Arielle.
Not just because it wasn’t mine anymore. The name carried a lot. That name was a suit of skin I never chose, sewn with expectations I never fit into. People loved her, or thought they did. She was sweet, she was obedient, she was the smile in photos that made everyone else comfortable. But she was also quiet because she had to be. She hid everything—grief, anger, queerness, gender—deep enough that even she forgot how much was buried.

That name.

Arielle was the name in my dad’s voice when he needed someone to blame. The name on cards from my mom when she didn’t know how to see me. It was the name teachers praised. Pastors prayed over it. Strangers misgendered it. Sisters protected the name even when I didn’t know how to protect myself. It was all sharp edges and a mask I wore so long it felt like skin.

I’m not her. I never was.

Still, I won’t pretend she didn’t exist. Arielle got me here. She survived what I shouldn’t have had to. She wrote poems in secret, carved hope into notebook margins, and stayed alive when everything said not to. She was the ghost I outgrew, the beginning of me.

There were days Arielle felt like a shadow dragging behind me. I was always a step out of reach, but never gone. I wrestled with her silence. Struggled with the parts of myself I was afraid to look at. Then hid the truth behind a name that wasn’t mine. But with every poem I wrote, every truth I told, I felt her loosen her grip. Not because I abandoned her, but because I learned to carry her differently.

Axton writes to walk her home.

Now, when I write, I don’t write to erase her. I write to hold her hand and walk her home.

This is why I write. Not for closure, but connection.

Not to silence Arielle, but to let her rest.

And in her place, I stand. Alive. Whole. Still writing.

Every word is a step forward. Every poem, reclaiming. Every breath, a nod to the person I was always underneath it all.

links Beta/ Arc Readers & St Teams A Poem
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May 30, 2025
“Welcome Home” A Love Letter to the Misfits
An Original Poem by: Axton N.O. Mitchell

“Welcome Home”

I am a fan of the melancholy,
the morbid,
and the macabre.

A glutton for the gore and the grotesque.
A shameless slut for a slasher or two..
I’m hoping this is also you.

See I find it easier to write about
what I know and I like.
If I hit a bump or two and I cannot seem to write a thing, I like.
I just look into the dark for a spark.

If you make friends when the sunshine dies where the sidewalk ends…
Where creepers find a home to crawl,
You are in for a treat.
Take your seat.

This is my homage to the strange,
the odd one out,
the girl who forgot her shout, and
the boy who had her back but never his own.
You are no longer under attack.

Welcome home my sweet outcasts.

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May 23, 2025
The Oldest Thing I Wear – A Poetic Reflection on Identity and Skin
What’s the oldest things you’re wearing today?

The oldest thing I wear is my skin.
It’s been with me through every phase, every fight, every shedding of who I was told to be.
This skin has known confusion, dysphoria, silence.
It’s been misread, mislabeled, mistaken.
It wore names I’ve since buried.
It held me tightly in closets I clawed my way out of.
It was called “girl” before I could speak “man.”
It carries the imprint of binding,
the memory of compression against ribs,
the ache in my back from years of trying to disappear.
It remembers summer heat trapped under layers meant to protect,
meant to hide.
There are scars, both chosen and given.
Lines from surgeries that felt like reclamation.
Faint stretch marks from growth I wasn’t supposed to have.
Marks I didn’t ask for but now claim as mine.
My skin has become something sacred.
It doesn’t forget the weight of being visible,
or the danger of being seen too clearly.
But it fits me better now.
It answers to the right name.
And even when it’s tired,
even when the world tries to make it a target,
it stays.
It stretches.
It protects.
It tells the story I’ve fought like hell to live.

links Reviewers Form Elon
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May 17, 2025
Am I a Leader or a Follower? A Trans Journey of Authenticity and Courage
Some Lead, Others Fall in Line

A follower might have waited. Waited for safety, for acceptance, for someone else to go first. But thirteen years ago, I didn’t wait to socially transition. This decision allowed me to medically transition three years later.

I have never been one to fall in line. I have always felt the itch of resistance when told to fit it, shrink, or to wait my turn. A follower would have stayed quiet, but that has never been my nature. I carved a path where there was not one, trading comfort for authenticity, silence for visibility. I have always moved to the rhythm of my own convictions. Enjoying venturing off the beaten path often alone. However, I was never lost.

Fearlessness is Fake News

Being a leader does not mean being fearless; it means moving forward even when fear sits in your throat. I said a decade ago I started my medical transition. Back then, the world wasn’t quite yet filled with hashtags and visibility campaigns. There were not many tv characters or social movements to point to. We are talking about the era pre the politicizing of transgender identities. It was just me and my stubborn heart. I knew deeply that I could no longer live my life pretending. I was not a woman. I had no maps or guidebooks. I just had a gut feeling, and a fire that said go! Eventually, I met my people, who would point me to different resources along some of the way, and I the same for them.

Popular Belief

I want to clarify something. Neither I nor anyone I know has ever transitioned because it was popular. Nor because it was accepted. It isn’t popular now, and it was not then either. I transitioned because living life as a woman felt like slow suffocation. Even if the world did not have space for me, I will continue to carve out my own. The world still does not have space for me. I will continue to carve out my own space.

Leadership to me doesn’t always mean crowds and commands. Sometimes it looks like the quiet rebellion or choosing truth over comfort. Sometimes it’s being the first to stand up to say, “This is who I am!” and daring others to see you finally. I walked ahead not because I want or wanted followers, but because I could no longer stand still. Silence was never and will never create safety for people like me. I have often been doubted, but I always move forward. Each time I move forward, I make space for others to follow. It is not because I asked them to. It is because opening the path showed them they were always allowed to.

So, am I a leader or a follower?

I am a leader. I refuse to be anything less than myself. This holds true even when the world still has not caught up yet.

A poem to a little girl a poem about surgery
a poem thanking the goddess for trans men
a poem about violence against trans men
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May 15, 2025