My body language resembled it's own comfort.
It was not preached to me,
although she is attacked,
for those who can not connect with her usual.
Her comfort is a barrier,
created by unacceptance.

I see him,
unclean face, alcohol soothes over his lip.
Perfect symmetry.
With a stumble over his left foot,
his presence was affront my uneasiness.
He speaks a tale of how he reads me,
how he can discover me.
How each syllable spit off his tongue,
craves my body.
He states "my kind" are more appealing lacking voice,
with our legs a distance from another.

I am scolded.
I am scolded for my lack in ability.
They do not know,
I was never taught,
No one is.
One leg is demanded to lay over the other.
The curriculum reads it to be so.
"Your kind is in a lack of grace."

Someone close,
sits aside my quivering body.
Everyone seemed to express immense
freeness.
I was unaware of this comfort.
"Let your legs breathe for a change."

"My kind" is not righted to
the feelings of openness or security.
All for the positioning of the lower part of the body.
Open for a drunken hand to slip where
it mustn't reach,
Closed for the restoration of grace in a society.

My kind is a doorway to be used by the world.