Pressed Petals

Haikus from My Feminization Journey

I never thought of myself as a poet.

If anything, I always believed poetry belonged to the effortlessly artistic - the ones who could spin metaphors without blushing, who knew exactly how to capture longing in twelve syllables. And yet, years ago, when my feminization journey was still a fragile whisper in my heart, I stumbled upon haiku.

Three lines.
Seventeen syllables.
A moment, crystallized.

It felt safe.

Haiku did not demand grand declarations. It asked only for honesty. A season. A sensation. A breath. And so I began writing one nearly every day - sometimes shy, sometimes trembling, sometimes glowing with pride.

A woman on her way who needed a small container for very big feelings.

Recently, I read back through my collection. Page after page of small poems, like pressed flowers from different seasons of myself. I cried more than once. Not because the poems are technically brilliant - they aren’t - but because they hold the girl I was becoming.

Tonight, I want to share some of the ones that still make my cheeks burn.

The First Commitment - My Ears Pierced

Before skirts. Before nails. Before anything visible.

It began with a needle and a decision.

I remember sitting in that small studio, heart pounding louder than the sterile buzz of the room. Getting my ears pierced felt like crossing an invisible line. There would be no hiding it from myself anymore. It was a promise.

When the first stud clicked into place, I felt ... marked. Claimed by my own truth.

Silver spark of pain
Two bright doors in tender skin
I choose who I am

Reading it now, I still feel that electricity. It was not about jewelry. It was about permission.

My wife wrote one for me that evening and slipped it into my journal:

Tiny stars shining
Braver than you think you are
My blooming darling

I cried when I read hers. I still do.

The First Time in a Skirt

If the piercings were commitment, the skirt was exposure.

I remember the fabric against my thighs - so light, so dangerously soft. I had tried skirts at home before, of course. But this time I stepped outside. The air brushed my legs in a way trousers never allowed. Every step felt like both a confession and a celebration.

I was certain everyone could see my secret.
But what I felt most was freedom.

Wind under my hem
Bare knees tremble in daylight
Sky sees the real me

This one makes me blush because I remember how hyper-aware I was of my body. Every sway. Every shift. It was terrifying - and intoxicating.

Having My Nails Done

The first time I had my nails done professionally, I could barely keep still in the chair. The technician held my hand so casually, filing and shaping, while I sat there feeling like something sacred was happening.

When the polish dried, glossy and deliberate, I couldn’t stop staring at my fingers. They looked elegant. Intentional.

Claimed.

Fingers bloom in red
Ten quiet flags of courage
I touch the world soft

I don't allow myself too often getting my nails done professionally. So it is still some excitement around it. Our boyfriend wrote one for me sometime later, teasing but affectionate:

Polished fingertips
Tracing shy lines on my arm
You glow when you blush

I had to close the journal after that. I was smiling too much.

Serving My Goddess - The Joy and the Challenge

Serving her is not simple. It is not fantasy silk and soft lighting. It is discipline. It is surrender. It is growth.

There were days I failed her expectations - distracted, selfish, not attentive enough. Those days hurt. Not because of punishment, but because I wanted to be better for her.

The joy, though ... the joy is indescribable. Kneeling at her feet, knowing I am trusted in my devotion. Feeling her hand in my hair - not ownership, but chosen submission.

Bent spine, restless mind
Learning grace through quiet strain
Devotion takes work

Forehead to cool floor
Her shadow warm over me
Peace in surrender

When I read these now, I see how much I matured. Service stopped being about performance. It became about intimacy.

Strict Punishment After Failure

One memory still burns hot on my cheeks, the bottom ones in that case.

I disappointed her. Not in a dramatic way - just enough. Carelessness. Lack of focus.

The punishment was structured. Calm. Intentional. There was no cruelty - only correction. But standing there afterward, cheeks flushed (and I leave to the personal imagination which ones), I felt small and seen and deeply loved.

Stinging lesson learned
Heat rising beneath lowered eyes
I will do better

What moves me now is not the discipline itself - it’s the safety I felt within it.

Being Asked to Try on a Mini Skirt

We were shopping together - my wife and I. I thought we were browsing casually when she held up a rather short mini skirt and said, with that mischievous smile, "You should try this on. Show me."

My heart nearly stopped.

In the dressing room mirror, I saw so much leg. So much vulnerability. When I stepped out to show her, my knees were shaking.

She circled me slowly, eyes warm and proud.

I had never felt so exposed - or so cherished.

Hem high on my thighs
Her gaze steadies trembling knees
I glow in her eyes

The Nostril - A Girlhood Dream

Back in the 90s, I was living as male, watching trends shift and body piercings slowly travel across the ocean. I remember seeing the first girls wearing delicate nose studs - tiny sparks of silver that looked both cute and quietly rebellious. I admired them more than I ever admitted out loud. They seemed confident, a little daring, unapologetically feminine.

At the time, the idea of wearing one myself felt impossibly distant. It wasn’t just a piercing - it symbolized a version of me I didn’t yet have the courage, or perhaps the permission, to become. That small shimmer on someone else’s face felt like a secret I wasn’t allowed to claim.

Now, living feminized and fully embracing the woman I have grown into, I sometimes smiled at that memory. What once felt unreachable no longer has to remain a silent wish. Perhaps it’s time to let that teenage dream finally find its place - a tiny silver reminder that the girl who once only watched from afar is now allowed to shine.

So the day I finally did it felt like reclaiming a dream my younger self had buried.

Tiny silver stud
Rebel spark on softened face
Teenage wish fulfilled

When I catch my reflection now, that small stud still makes me smile. It’s playful. Defiant. Mine.

Kissing Our Boyfriend for the First Time

The first kiss was hesitant.

I remember looking at him and feeling my stomach flutter in a way I hadn’t expected. I was shy - painfully shy. He moved slowly, giving me time. When our lips finally met, I felt something open.

Not just desire. Acceptance.

Breath caught between us
Soft question on waiting lips
Answer: stay with me

I still blush reading that.

He wrote one too, later:

Your timid first kiss
Sweet as dawn after long night
I’ll guard that softness

My First Time with Him

This one is harder to write about without turning crimson.

It was tender. Awkward in places. Beautiful.

I had never been with a man before. I was nervous, uncertain how my body would feel, how my heart would respond. But there was so much patience in the room. So much love - from both of them.

When we finally joined fully, I felt held - not just physically, but emotionally. Something inside me shifted. A door I didn’t know how to open had opened.

Joined in trembling trust
New tides move through hidden shores
I bloom, unafraid

When I read this one now, I feel gratitude. It wasn’t about conquest. It was about becoming.

My wife, glowing with pride afterward, added hers:

Petals opening
Two hands guiding gentle spring
My brave, blushing love

I have never felt so supported.

Kneeling in Front of Her

There is something profoundly intimate about kneeling willingly.

It is not humiliation. It is offering.

One evening, candlelight soft against the walls, I knelt before her and felt entirely aligned - body, heart, identity. No masks. No confusion.

Just devotion.

Candles flicker low
Knees pressed firm to silent floor
I am exactly right

Our Renga - Love and Lust Intertwined

After my first time with him, the three of us wrote a renga together a few days later. We passed the notebook back and forth, each adding stanzas. It was playful and flushed and full of love.

I’ll share a softened version here, but I still remember how heated my cheeks were as we wrote it 😊😊😊😊😊.

Wife:

Three shadows entwined
Moonlight blessing tangled sheets
Pride fills my warm chest

Him:

Her courage unfolding
Like silk loosened from careful hands
Beauty in surrender

Me:

Heartbeat loud as drums
Shy smile against his shoulder
I am wanted here

Wife:

My loves side by side
Desire wrapped in tenderness
No one left outside

Him:

Dominant girl watching
Devoted girl glowing bright
I cherish you both

Me:

Still blushing, still new
Yet longing for tomorrow’s touch
Love tastes like courage

That renga lives on a page stained faintly by candle wax, sealed with a lip print of each of us. Every time I reread it, I feel that same blend of vulnerability and joy.

A Haiku for Us

Finally, one for our relationship - the three of us, imperfect and real and deeply intertwined.

Three hearts, woven close
Different rhythms, one pulse shared
Home is plural now

I still don’t call myself a poet.

But when I flip through my journal and see the girl I was - the girl becoming - I realize haiku gave me something priceless: a way to witness myself.

I feel like I should end with a soft apology.

Not because these poems are untrue - they are deeply, sometimes embarrassingly true - but because they are imperfect. Some of the syllables stumble. Some metaphors are simple. Some emotions spill over the neat edges that haiku is supposed to contain. I am not formally trained. I never set out to be a poet.

I am just a woman on her way - ok, let's be honest: behaving like teenage girl sometimes 😊 - who needed a small container for very big feelings.

Reading back through them, I see flaws everywhere - uneven rhythm, clumsy phrasing, moments that are more blush than brilliance. And yet ... I felt an overwhelming urge to gather them, to collect these fragile seventeen-syllable milestones and place them side by side. They are not masterpieces. They are footprints.

Each one marks a step in my becoming.

So if they feel raw, or too intimate, or technically imperfect - that is because I was all of those things when I wrote them. And perhaps I still am. But they are honest. They are mine. And for that reason alone, I wanted to share them. 

Each milestone.
Each tremble.
Each blooming.

Seventeen syllables at a time.