T Shot #9: Ode to My Sharps Container

Holder of loose blood. Taker of contraptions

I use when I’m brave enough to save myself.

Visual reminder that I can do it. Former container

of pickles so you smell like sour victory. Glass

house of my gender. Chest hair–maker.

Every interaction at the coffee shop, on the

phone with medical providers, every nervous

laughter after checking the sex on my ID

comes down to you. Ass hair–activator.

Restitution for a 20-year gap between who

I was & who I could be. Balding beauty. Conjurer of

my wildest dreams, ones I’ve dreamed since

I was 13. Activist. Advocate. Apt to be who believes

in me. Tallying up all my T, & all my bois who didn’t

get to be boys. Heaven sent. Heaven’s back door,

roping me up through the vent.