Before dressing myself this morning,
I made sure to add a dropper full of toxic masculinity into my
molten coffee cup before it had a chance to cool.

Then I pulled all my banal toned clothes out of the dryer,
folded them,
and cried over an expended dryer sheet because all
I can do is look clean and neat,
when I would rather be a colorfest, wrested from
a notion that I can't feel bright, without losing strength.

This is why I cook my own food.
Mend my own clothes,
Dance my own dance,
So, I don't own anyone a **** thing.