There is something strange about being
seen simply as the man I am and yet
knowing that what lies between my thighs
was called at birth
I was determined male
assigned as ‘a boy’
birthright and surgery combined to make me.
I am determined to be a man.
If he loves and sees me,
can it be?
Beneath the sheets I feel revealed,
lines of scar that I hope he won’t feel,
small splotches that I see stain my skin
the natural shape disowned for me long ago
which I never saw untouched
—afraid of what he sees.
that seeking the masculine divine
in my lover is looking in a mirror
in which I feel hopelessly, secretly distorted.
That I will never be what I am, must, be.
But then he sees me,
tells me I’m beautiful—
and I believe.