I once wrote of weakness,
the submission inherent in my female form
worn like a red rag of surrender.
My hair I cut, my breasts compressed;
and yet, less female does not safety give.
I carry with me scars, fear faded;
I failed to keep my body my own
and wear these marks in remembrance.
In castrated femininity, I swagger as disguise
my hips narrow, no child-bearing lilt.
I lace heavy boots,
chain-smoke loudly, cursing laddishly
and drunkenly say that I am a writer.
I bare my arms, quote Plath as deflection;
and play the role of my dreams,
gin sloshing hollowly in my mug.
Yet I feel my heart beat; kerplunk, kerplunk,
and wish I could be more.
I feel my spine ache, eroding columns;
and pretend I slouch in affectation.
I fear to leap, secure in my façade.
for I would rather believe I would not fall,
and remain unproven, but full of promise.