You're gonna like this one.
When the doctor gave me the hormones, I didn't know what it would feel like.
ONE MONTH
My voice is deeper — it’s ever so slight but it’s real,
confirmed by a friend who quietly
remarked, “Your voice is different. I like it.”
Every little change is like a flower bursting open in my chest.
My heart is buried in vibrant colors.
In the morning, when I meet myself again, there are
dew drops on my lungs and I taste sweetness every time
I sigh.
I’ve been housed in a body that was given to me, but this
is the first time I’ve felt that it’s mine.
This is the first time that I can touch
my skin and know that it’s my own. This is
the first time that I see my reflection
and I am not looking for someone else.
It’s been one month. I can tell you
what I know now:
I know what it feels like to unveil a garden underneath your skin.
I know what it feels like to watch your cheek bones rise
like the sun from your fleshy, familiar face.
I know what it feels like to open your mouth and learn
to love the sound of your own voice again.
Here’s the truth:
When the doctor gave me the hormones, I didn’t know
what it would feel like. I could only guess
that it would be good.
I never knew it would be joy, the kind of joy that you fear
might tear the seams of your small body
because there is too much to hold.
