I know I mostly just post porn here but this site is probably the safest to put my thoughts on. Not really "poetry" just kind of getting some thoughts out of my mind

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The item between my legs sits uncomfortably.
Bulky, always plucking the strings of my mind, reminding me it's there and it's incorrect.
I was born a cis man I feel comfortable as a man I am a man.
But this body swims towards the ocean, ignoring the hook that is attached between my legs.
I look towards the horizon. Soft petals between my legs, a weight lifted, my body, mine.
The correct parts for my mind, for my brain.

My identity crawls out of the dark, quiet dungeon and crawls upwards.

I push it back.

What would I tell a psychologist? A therapist? A doctor? I am comfortable as a man, I like my scruffiness, my harsh angles, my rough hands. How would I call out of work for this? What would my coworkers ask? What would I tell my boss? What if I don't heal right? What if I aim for a goal that's simply too high?
But others have had this surgery, trans women. But I am not a woman. I am a man?

My identity breaks free of my grip and crawls upwards.

I erect a tall wooden fence in front of it.

How do I find support for this? Surely there are groups of people that feel like me? Somewhere? Or am I intruding. I am a cis man. The trans community is for transgender people is it not? Will I be seen as immoral? Will I be seen as a pervert, a chaser, even in this community? Am I taking resources from those who need it more? I suffer no dysphoria, and yet...

My identity barrels through the fence and crawls upwards.

I build a thick brick wall to keep it back.

What if it's made illegal? What if the law is written so men like I cannot receive this surgery in my country? Am I willing to leave? Am I willing to leave my job, my home, my coworker friends, my stability, just for a thought? Just for a thought. A thought that occupies the stage of my mind every hour of every day?

My identity bursts through the brick wall with great force.

I lock it in a bunker, I throw away the key, I seal it up, I pour concrete over it, I weld metal bars, I do everything in my power to stop it.

What if I am only interested in it for the ideal? What if I really am only interested in shaping my body to match a character I've made in my head? What if I am rejected? What if it works out and I am still unsatisfied? What if....

My identity gnaws through, clawing, ripping free.

I let it come to the surface, I let it see out of my eyes.

A body reflects back at me, bare, in front of the mirror as I was made.

My identity recoils and plummets down, to the dark quiet, terrible weight down between my legs.

The ideas stop and I'm left alone with the reflection of a body.

That is me.