when most girls were learning
how to pose **** for pictures,
to be simultaneously ******
and innocence-baited Lolitas
I was learning (mastering)
the art of the keg stand
and jumping into pits filled
mostly with sweaty boys
at punk rock shows
how to hold my own and
not get knocked down
I had this sort of hard shell
though under the surface
I was raw yolk - so thin-skinned,
easy to spill and shatterable
we were drunken cultural rebels
sitting on front porches
of addict-strewn flophouses
******* about the state of things
but not really doing ****
about any of it
I was there, and thus
rather absent from
average female programming
and since then I guess
I've sort of mostly felt
like one of the boys,
not real ****
if I wore a short skirt
it was with combat boots -
just in case someone might
mistake me for some POA
and require a swift steel toe
to the shin, but that
never happened
though I'm sure my style did save me
from lots of ****** advances
in my senior year, I shaved my head
and the girl who sat next to me
in choir class said, oh my god,
what did your boyfriend say?!
and I laughed and told her
he's the one who did it
in all honesty, I really liked
flying under the radar of what
most people considered hot
because when I stopped dating
the guy who was basically
Jack Black from Orange County
(but less drugs, more alcoholism
and also sort of his doppelgänger)
and lost the weight I had put on
trying to keep up with his lifestyle
of perpetual malt liquor, lethargy
and terrible eating habits
and left my hometown
to attend that big name school
and experimented with identity
in a place that has a greater ratio
of young and beautiful people
than any other I've known,
and suddenly felt myself
wanting attention
particularly from a boy who
liked those hot girls
I became one
and got
way too much of it
from him, and everyone else
and I did not know
how to handle it
inside
after I started to wear pants that fit,
channeled my art onto my face,
learned to walk, run and dance
in 5-inch stilettos (like a boss)
though I know most girls
are trained to put themselves
on display from a very young age
to do and say and dress in ways
that encourage this type of
attentive objectification
it always made me feel
not quite comfortable in my skin
I didn't like walking into a club
and feeling every neck crane
I was pretty balanced as a kid,
but became a real tomboy
and then did a 180 -
making up for lost time
with a crash course
at ***** school
I sold out -
learned how to pose
**** for those photos
to contort myself
into what was
expected,
desired
but it never
felt right
and that attention I got
wasn't for what I was -
it was for becoming
a doll of sorts
the role never fit real well
even though I looked the part
and there's this vivid moment
of self-realization I can recall
where I saw it all as I stared
into the bathroom mirror of that boy
I finally won attention from,
tripping on mushrooms,
simultaneously seeing just how
stunningly beautiful I was
and this existential shame
at who and what I had become:
the plastic, the false, the trying
so hard to be pretty when I was
truly radiant underneath...
I think I cried a little
as the walls and me
both melted
and I could have let that marinate,
turned around and walked away from
that ill-fitting role-play,
but I turned my back on that vision
and returned to the living room
and my life of not being myself
with him
I wasn't the hot girl I'd become,
but I also wasn't who I was before
she was also a mask -
not one of ****** glitter
but of hard Rubbermaid
where no one could see
or hurt me
I had to pass through both
my false masculinity and
Barbie-qued femininity
to find what either
means in reality
and now I see
I wanted to be one of the boys
because I had a front-row seat
to how they viewed and spoke
about the hot girls
it's why I never
wanted to be them...
until I did
guess I felt like I was
missing out on something
and I was, but that
was not the thing
that was Sweet'N Low of feminine -
toxic, disgusting and unsatisfying
it is a very different thing
to unfurl in the balance
of fierce and fragile
it takes warrior strength
to be soft and vulnerable,
to follow your instinct when
it tells you to stalk and still
be able to melt in the safety
of another's arms
without feeling
weak
the beautiful strength
in surrendering
I would say I'm sorry
that I hid in faux masculine
and turned out my goddess
but if I hadn't done that
if I hadn't learned
what I am not
I may never have found how
heavenly beautiful and strong
I could feel when I stop trying
to be anything and allow for
my sacred F&M to flow
- authentically -
through me
and one day, I'll master it
and hold myself in balance
perhaps with help
from another's arms to steady
like a good friend supporting
an applause-worthy keg stand