What would be like
to be
100%
safe?

I mean
to be that perfect combination
of visible
and invisible.

I mean
to be
left alone
while walking the streets.

I mean
to be
respected.

I mean to be a
white
straight
man.

-

I have to drill it into my head
that I love myself
as I am –
queer, ace, woman-read, brown, crazy, femme –
because if I didn’t
I’d never be able to leave the house.

I have to say
that to be otherwise
would be boring
so that maybe one day
I'll actually believe it.

But I cannot say
I have never wanted to be
100%
safe.

-

Today
I put on a short dress
I have never felt pretty enough to wear,
and walked to and from a café,
knowing what would come.

I kept track –
four honks, one leer, one whistle,
told myself:
                   you knew this would happen,
                     this is nothing,
                     you’re lucky,
                     it could be
                     so
                     much
                     worse.

It still hurt.

I practiced the motion
of flipping off the bird
as I walked,
tried to get it
as reflexive
as a cop with a loaded gun,
knowing
that it would make no difference.

-

To dare to be feminine in public
is to perfect
the art of looking straight ahead
the art of being hard of hearing
the art of fast, fast, fast walking
[just in case].

So often
we have to weaponize femininity
because that’s all we’ve got.

As women,
we can learn to love anyone --
taking them in as our children,
but to fall into love is another matter
that involves not a mother's choice,
but a man's wisdom:
to love himself,
to care for his woman,
and to plan for his future,
rather than to be the child of his woman
who must sweat each day away
with the worries of his worship.
All a woman yearns for is his affection,
which a man is most hesitant to give
at times when he must show strength
in place of grace,
and anger in place of empathy.
Even as these things roll off his shoulder,
a woman may continue to love tenderly,
for that is what a woman is;
born into life to comfort those in need --
whether child or man, monster or husband,
she cannot resist
to allow one evil spirit to leave this world swiftly,
untouched by the hands of an angel.

She is a woman of power
Like few have ever known
She can take on the world
And manage on her own.
Without her friends and family
It would be a lonely road
But she doesn’t need the help
To carry her own load.

Strong women have a place
In the tales of all our history.
Some became a familiar face.
Some are shrouded in mystery.
But when evil does its worst
And comes to **** and rob,
Sometimes a woman is first
And the best man for the job.

She points the way to others
And show us how to act.
She’s no shrinking violet
And that’s an actual fact.
She’s stronger than she looks
But can be soft as down.
If you want to watch a winner
You should follow her around.

Strong women have a place
In the tales of all our history.
Some became a familiar face.
Some are shrouded in mystery.
But when evil does its worst
And comes to **** and rob,
Sometimes a woman is first
And the best man for the job.

The world has been structured
To reward and applaud the man,
But a woman of power will do
Whatever anyone else can.
Though some may even fear her
She will go to almost any length
To help her world get better
And benefit from her strength.

Strong women have a place
In the tales of all our history.
Some became a familiar face.
Some are shrouded in mystery.
But when evil does its worst
And comes to **** and rob,
Sometimes a woman is first
And the best man for the job.

my reflection, anatomical inaccuracy reads something like:

fairy dust in a silt layer, bones all shattered at the press of her fingers, and for months I molded a sandcastle around the soft

sinking, drinking ichor from a cocktail glass and dragging nails across my discomfort -

did you see that girl taking a tempest inside herself, to warp her sinew, spreading from this side of the universe to other?

in the lamplight I bit a secret onto the ridge of her spine; *sometimes I sleep near fires hoping my insides become glass

I watched the swell of my ******* rise and fall with each breath, and I remembered how your eyes traced the same movement.
I absentmindedly ran my fingers along the flare of my hips, and remembered how white your knuckles were as you held on to the same flesh.

I couldn't fathom how you saw my rebirth as a slow death.

I was a woman in your arms, the flushed
state of my skin was the secret to my depths.
The breaths I released were tainted by my strung vocal chords, a hymn of truth.
Each drop of sweat that descended the nape of my neck were pearls of my wisdom.
When my toes curled it was a sign; the alignment of planets.
The goosebumps that rose on my skin were the explosion of supernovas.
The sparkle in my eyes told of humble mischief.

Only what I saw in your eyes was a distortion.
The alarm on your features whispered of disappointment.
Your eyes witnessed filth, but I smelled the scent of gardenias.
Your skin was repelled by disgust, but I tasted sweetness on my lips.

I finally realized it, your mind was woven by our culture of shame.
Subconsciously your thoughts wrapped around sin and the desecration of purity.
I let you inside, cradled your needs and desires.
I basked in the rush and desperation of your movement.
But you saw this ritual as a sacrifice, and you held the knife to split me open on your malicious alter.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but you seemed to have gone blind.

The indulgence of my body and soul was wasted.
It was wasted on you who clung to ignorance,
you who was submerged in the fragility of your ego and superiority.
I would not let you sully me, or the beauty of that moment.
I would hail my strength, and scream out my confidence.
I would relish in my femininity,
for I am a woman and I would never be ashamed.

Lips like bloodlines,
Carmilla kisses her mirror
and calls herself dangerous

Naming myself for dead things,
for ruinous things;
fire,
the ash that drank Pompei,
the ivy that made your walls cave,

Was Lady Macbeth sweeping her hair in braids
to nest her crown?
Or Nefertiti painted gold to reclaim God?

I’m asking for the lavender girls
See, we do these things to be holy
to be myths in our skin

Tying feathers to our shoulders
and glitter to our tongues,
thinking
I can be gold if I want to
I can be thorn-tipped ugly

In pink fur, black lace, we kiss the toes
of Courtney Love and Venus in one breath

Cut back
to my blood-laced lips on the mirror
as though saying Narcissus is my idol
my skin placed above heaven
and I wish to love myself so much
I’d choke for it

Papier-mâché skin held up by toothpick bones.
Composed of dainty flowers,
Paired with eggshell tiptoes

Used for skipping and prancing –
Prim, proper, polished
And petite, satin-gloved hands

To scrub the dishes with
Till unblemished to mirror you back, from inside out –
Purged, chaste, elegant.

Fragile.

But papier-mâché has layers of depth and
Skin thicker than at surface it seems.
Toothpicks can pick up the pieces

Of each hiccup or calamity,
Regardless of how small
And despite their size they’re not weak at all,

But, piercing.
Those eggshells shield and yield
The precious prosper of young.

Who’s to say you’re no cactus,
And not just some flimsy petal –
But you can bet you’re just as sweet.

We are composed of the iron
That presses your clothes.
Nip

Like the scorching tea served
On china platters.
Our rosé lips are pursed

Not to kiss, or gloss for backwards fairytales
‘Prince Charming’ turned frogs
But in revolt.

And revolt we will.

{i remember}

She comes to presence
in a great wave of grief
that has no bottom.

{water cannot swim}

Feeling the unbearable
weight of womanhood
tearing me open,
revealing my own sorrows.

{a channel of life}*

To be a gate of love and blood,
the flesh of desire,
bearer of all burdens,

was so traumatic I was reborn
in the body of a man.