short-faced femme in butch clothing.
Pressured to cut your hair
so you can fit in with the queerer than thou
and long sleeved club.
You don’t paint your eyes anymore
because someone told you
it was wrong.
Your dresses don’t see daylight.
They call you by your last name
and finally accept you as one of them.
But at night
you dream of sequin finger gloves.
I see you, sibling femme.
The water is pinker
when we’re ourselves.
Don’t let someone else’s insecurities
stop you from frills.
I love the little curl to the tips of your buzz cut.
Like the femme inside of you
pushing through your scalp
to find sunshine.
I see you
And if they don’t
then they aren’t looking.