Slicing off a tiny morsel of myself
one instance at a time, so that
the dogs can smell and lick my sampled meat –
they might want me around – or not –
I'm no guru on social cues,
or expert pet whisperer or psychic –
A month's worth of full moons, yet
still haven't figured out how
to be myself among hooded, masked strangers –
at least, not in this lifetime – perhaps
extroversion is in store for the next one –
perhaps friends are in store then –

Another poem somewhat reflecting on how I felt at a social event last night, though it's more or less how I feel about trying to socialize with new people in general.

Finishing up washing my hands I look up
and see an odd, yet beautiful woman
staring back at me –
the reflective metal behind the glass
hid nothing – It didn't hide
the wavy, brown willow branches
running down her soft, round face,
gently resting upon wide shoulders –
Specks of black dotted around cherry blossom lips
that gave passage to a voice with depth and grit,
and while she could learn the art
of soft-spoken speech,
she'd rather not pretend
and own her voice –
Under her plush exterior,
accented with a healthy belly,
a bosom that fits perfectly in the hands,
and a curvy backside that
embarrasses the envious
and draws in the chasers –
under that plush exterior lies the strength of
a feline apex predator
and a mother to all who need one –
She may act like a Tom cat but
she is still "she" –

Yet
if on the rare occasion she decides to
fix up her hair,
get her nails did,
rock a cute as hell outfit, and
do up some makeup that slays –
if on the rare occasion she decides to
present and pass as a genuine woman,
she will still be called "sir" –

For whatever reason, I let this one sit untitled for a few months unintentionally. However, I still distinctly remember how I felt this one instance where I took a good look at myself in the mirror. Hope anyone else who's trans resonates with this feeling too.