Born Male

I was born male.

She looks at them on my thighs.

Soft brushy freckles.

She likes them.

Her lush lush lips go upon them.

She says I’m such a lovely, lovely


I giggle.

She kisses my soft, white legs more.

So I gasp and I moan.

This feels right. It feels succulent.

It feels more appropriate than

how I was originally made.

So I turn and I turn it on

more and more.

I burn and she melts me.

We melt together

in midnight and morning sun.


How does it feel
when I touch her?
I don’t need to know this.
I won’t know it.
Not in this stalemate of
Heaven on hold.
Though I felt it on her,
her body on top of my fingers,
the whole of her force.
Yes, I want to know.
Does she feel
what my brain feels inside;
raw madness,
imagination alive
and birth and bloom of
some concept
burning neurons
blurring self
between earthling and
right before,
raw body.
I’m melting.

We’re headed down the
West Coast,
someday in the future.