Call out to me as I’m a boy.
Not wrong.
Call out to me as I’m a girl.
Not wrong.
Yet neither right you are.
On the two sides
of the sanitarily jewelled glass
are found:
One; a blackened silhouette
of pencilled bushy hair
of feminine,
Tinkling, tip-toeing, scrolling by,
with no screeching eyes,
Two; golden-melt spectres of Spanish Sun
in slender sight,
of sandy, pungent, quickly cut hair
on the tanned skin,
On the masculine, beheld.
Both looking, both touching,
both silent, feverish, of magic.
My starry window of stories,
my wreathed mirror my witnesses:
My body’s ever felt lacking,
hosting yet trapping,
To beat hushed the glass with shout
“It doesn’t feel right!”
To find more of my heart
in the captivity of male’s gaze
Than ******* on my chest.
To find that presence,
Of steadier, lower, of beige fracture,
being closer
To my senses than those lips
Or height of a woman.
Stand up, graze, kiss,
Long and linger
In all those persona
of no corporeal,
In all those heats I saw myself in
When in literature’s boys eyes.
I behold all names I wish,
Male or female,
Or of no *** it shall be.
I love for love. Love in love.
Stand back. Admire two egos
of mirror’s glass.
My body can’t hold me whole.
One day I’ll transcend it. All.
As a man I gave birth once,
In my dreams.
I exceed all things my body deems.
No matter in whose eyes I’m found
In my mind,
I greet both the feminine touch,
The masculine sight.
On the matters of gender, sexuality, what we trespass or by others become limited at.
I tend to look in the mirror and say:
“I’m too great and complex for that body.
I didn’t expect something as small like that,
Vital organs of a seventeen-year old girl”
No matter in whose eyes I’m found
In my mind,
I greet both the feminine touch,
The masculine sight.
