I stand before the mirror
and examine my breasts.
protruding forth from my chest
and demanding kindness, free
ice cream, and violence.
my speckled face, freckled pale
brown like organic eggs,
ushes pink.
my eyebrows unkempt
and short hair untidy at the crown.
I grip my buttocks.
dissatised.

I chase the paradox around my head.
The filmy, sticky grain of
femininity slides across my skin.
It twinkles in every stare
and as my weight shifts from hip
to hip, I’m gliding as I walk.
My clenched jaw,
my small lips,
my broad shoulders
like an adolеscent boy.
I worship at the altar of
femininity in thе women who
suckle the lavender from my breath.
It poses nothing to me
but a question
to which I do not have the answer