For trans week, a poem:

My transgender wife
To me, is just my wife.
I look at her, and I see her,
She is soft,
She is kind and gentle.
I don't know what others see in her that makes them angry,
For as far as I can tell there is no wickedness in she.
When I feel her, I feel a woman.
When my hands caress her she signs happily as a woman signs,
Because she is a woman.
You who hate her cannot see subtly, you make enemies where there are none, and what formidable enemies you have made, even from among your own ranks.
For to have had love would have been all it took to set your myriad free from blidness, but you all will fumble in the dark while the rest of us dance in light filled halls of purest crystal.
You who wish to control, who wish to mock in cruelty, seek only to control (in others) that which you can't control within yourselves, so why are you bothering us?
You count yourself a jester but have not the heart of one, your heart is crippled, withered, black, and bitter.
You could never be a jester, you could never spread joy even among your fellows, because you have no joy to give, worm who would attack love.
I give to my own one final message here, love thyself, as I love you, you are worthy of love, and I do not lie in this.