Top, Bottom, Or Switch? (from my dating app profile)

I’m a lesbian top.
A “servant top”.
I like to use my tongue,
lips, hands, and toys.
And very good, attentive, caring,
and tuned into all the above.
Love to blow my lady’s mind
and take her breath away
and elevate her soul.
While I like to be the “doer”,
I’m very femme & sensual
at the same time;
gaspy, moany, intoxicated with you.
Love deep kisses and being
chest to chest.
I prefer not to use my thing
that was turned from a clxt
into a wee wee
in my mother’s womb,
but if you really want that
then I could be open to it.

The Unnecessary Journey

Did you want to see my gonads?
I’m not real sure you do.
They’re really very weird looking,
like all male-born gonads
(in my own personal opinion).
After receiving female hormones
they’ve shriveled up a bit.
I’d even say they’re kind of cute now,
as cute as male-born gonads can be.
46 years ago
they started on a journey.
Ever since, they have come outside,
into the golden sunlight world.
And since, I’ve wish they’d go,
go back inside,
or maybe even go away completely.
They’re going to be removed
from my body soon,
so soon, their unnecessary journey
will end.

The Mistress Of My Love & My Fk

My love, she brings me violets
from her garden.
They wither and hang on.
She sneaks around her husband
to kiss me on the side street
behind the bar.

My fk, she steals away from her
girlfriend around midnight
once a week.
She used to be my love,
but now we just fck.
She knows about my new love and
her heart aches a little cuz she knows
I’ll always be loved somewhere
in between.

A transwoman halfway between
commitment and a promise,
half a human to most people,
except the few women who let me
exist with their breaths,
then I am whole only cuz
the two of us are
whole together,
holding each other’s corporeal
souls.

They know me more than
halfway
then.
They believe they are alive
in ways they’ve never lived.

Sapphic Love

Sapphic love heals us.
Us women.
Cisgender and transgender
women.
It heals us from the
trauma of patriarchy.
The marginalizing.
The containment.
The — you should be like this
kind of stuff.
We’ll be however we want to be
together, woman to woman,
in this space.
It it is sweet and kind.
Non-judgmental.
It’s a safe space,
a tender space,
my ladies.
God, my fellow ladies.
This chest to chest stuff.
This lips to lips stuff.
This hard stuff.
This soft stuff.
This trustful stuff.

It heals.
God, it heals.

The Keys Of Heaven

We have found
the keys of heaven.

Us women.
Between us.
Breath to breath.
Hips to hips.
Ass on the sunshine.
Sunshine on the ass.
Blessed mornings.
Deep still nights.

Now we have found these
keys.
And we.
We are going to give them
away.
The angel order.
The order of angels.
Libertines
and Liberators.
Let’s give these keys to
everyone.

One Transwoman’s Way

I will grow old and die.

My body might slowly

lose its life and energy.

I will lose my beauty and

my youth.

My revival won’t go on

forever.

I will be in pain, be tired,

feel ragged and worn out.

Or

I could die sooner, from a

sudden illness, accident, or

heart attack.

But however this inevitability

happens,

I will have lived life on my terms,

with joy, believing in kindness

and leaning into other

people’s joy

regardless of what passes

around and within me

and how my fate peters out.

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

woman.

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.

Some Days Discarded

She knows I’m beautiful now.

Well, becoming more beautiful.

Though she doesn’t care anymore.

She let that kind of feeling go.

But she knows I’m having that

look these days

that others see and think

I’m a delight to look at and experience.

I might bring lust into a room.

There could be lust.

She could see my dark eyes

and my long eyelashes drawn across

the suspended air in stillness, calling

something sultry and sensual,

that dark hair majesty,

there with my cheekbones,

drawing my naughty eyes out

and shining on the naughty thoughts

of other women I see. Who go thinking.

They see me.

I’m seen.

I’m out.

It’s becoming and uncoming

in very much a way it never has before.

She knows I’m beautiful now.

But she doesn’t care anymore.

She can’t.

It would stop her world

and the kind of afternoons

she needs with herself.

In A Hotel Room In Albuquerque

In a hotel room in Albuquerque
I wake up
in the middle of the night
to various things you said
speaking in my mind,
like a radio tuning in…

Initially there is static,
my mind is groggy,
the words are unclear,
but soon the more into
consciousness I awake
I can clearly hear:

“Women don’t have penises.”
“Women don’t dance like that.”
“Women don’t have those kind
of thoughts.”
“A woman wouldn’t wear that.”
“I don’t think women do things
like that.”

Then I get up.
Go into the stale bathroom of
my hotel room.
Grab my pink metal tweezers
and continue my tenacious ritual
of plucking out the remnants of
my beard hair, one by one,
as I stand there for an hour
underneath the nauseating
fluorescent lighting,
plucking probably 800 hairs
and plotting out my plan to
move to Berlin to become a
Sapphic lesbian, woman-only,
sensual and tender,
feminist healer prostitute.