Dear Testosterone,
You made me sweaty, ***** and sometimes angry too
But I would be lying if I could say I know what I’d do without you
You changed my life from the outside in
Showed me that living as my true self is not living in sin
Each month I’m amazed by how much change I see
In my face, my voice, my hair and all of me

A seemingly fine day ruined with one headline.
Then another. And another. And by the time my phone stops buzzing the news couldn't be any clearer.

We lost a battle today. A battle for basic humanity, a battle to our own autonomy.

"Women" lost. "Women" should be afraid. "Women". "Women". "Women".

Every headline I read talks about how scary the world is for women.

Yes, the world is scary for women...or anyone with a ******.

I don't want to make this about me. Because it's not. It's about every transgender man that fights for healthcare on a daily basis. It's about every non-binary person assigned female at birth who can get pregnant.

and yes....it's about women.

It's about people (men and women) who think their ideals should determine what I do with my body.

It's about every pastor, minister, judge, and human being who feels they have a say in how my life is lived.

Poetry has always been and will always be political.

Poetry is art and art is expression of feeling.

Today....I'm ******.
I'm overwhelmed with a feeling of dread.

The same feeling of dread I felt during the 2016 election.
The same feeling of dread I felt the night of the Pulse Orlando shootings.
The same feeling of dread I feel every time I think of wearing my trans pride shirt out in public.

I'm not afraid to say how absolutely terrified I am....I'm just afraid for whatever is coming next.

Sincerely,

- Your friendly ****** having transman.

I don't know what to say.
This is horrible and terrifying.
To ***** out the hope and joy of so many children.
To criminalize the support of their wellbeing.

Death will come from this.
Children choosing death as they see their existence outlawed.
Supporters of such laws know what they are doing.

You know who you are.

When I have no mirror
And my thoughts run free
I am suddenly a monster
and no longer me

When I'm surrounded by a crowd
My bones splinter out
My elbows bend backwards
And my voice is a shout

Though I know it's not true
I know I'm no beast
Voices race through my head
And greedily they feast

I'll bend over forwards
To cave into my chest
To make myself smaller
So maybe they'll rest

And when I'm finally home
No that cant be
In the mirror I look
Unable to see

Who is that kid
Whose eyes I see
How pretty he is
But that's not me

You can't erase your face.
You can't retrace or displace
the lines you dislike.
Some people try. Why?
At best it makes a mess.

Why am I upset by a little extra bone?
The external effects of my natural testosterone?
How can a bit of unwanted hair excite despair?
Why do I care?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I pointlessly worry
about silly points
like the size of my shoulders
or my knee and thumb joints.
My hairline, my brow ridge,
the shape of my nose,
my masculine pelvis,
my crooked man toes...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My eyes are fine --
My only feature I like.
My shy smile is alright
but not too wide
'cause of my overbite --
-- the size of those incisors!

Now, some would say that I'm just vain,
so self-obsessed I've gone insane.
But I would say that's how we're trained,
At least in this day and age.

Others might paint me like Dorian Gray
praying to Satan for youth to stay,
but I just wish it hadn't gone this way.

Why would you keep your looks immutable
if you were never to begin with beautiful?

his hair is
his clothes are
his voice is
the scent just so
his hands are
his
he is.
his eyes are
they are happy
his eyes are happy
his eyes are his
imagine if they were yours
mine
i could become him
but would i
and if i could then will i
there are so many tears i hold they slip between my fingers
they could be his
would they be his
to become
to wish
and to imagine
is to feel
is it not
and with it pain.
falling sinking drowning
would his eyes be happy
will his eyes be happy
will his eyes be
will he
would it be for such
or is he never realized
indebted soul
to the theorized
im not sure if my hands are fuller
but either choice is incredible
to be offered
such a weight that is to water
it pins me to the floor
or to the wall it keeps me cornered
is this what it feels to be killed
or merely to have lived
and if latter
then perhaps
id like to know the former.

My Body cannot Cry,
but my Soul Screams Eternally

Vocal ingenuity
A generous gratuity
I wish could be removed from me
But I would still write poetry

--Which someone else would have to read
As from the page the inkblots plead
"Give us a voice!" the letters said
Without a voice they would be dead

But no-one reads my poetry
And so its voice is left to me
To show the World, or just to try
Be truly heard before I die