he said
i wasn’t feminine.
he said it twice,
hoping the echo
would re‑write
my code
of not being lady‑like.

he came to the conclusion
we should stop.
i talked like a mate.
and didn’t fit
his narrow idea
of a woman.

and i told him,
i won’t fold myself
to fit his frame.
no one
gets to offer lessons

on
how
we
should
be
shaped.

В пряничном домике,
Сбоку на пику,
Я наливал тебе в рот
Ежевику.
Вот Дровосеки,
А вот Эвридика,
Быстро все в торт.
Только тихо.

Yaroslav Kulikovsky. Kiev, 2021 (c).
Part of the cycle: Poems on City Flesh and Power.

👉 tiktok.com/@kulikovskyonthepunchline
👉 youtube.com/@KulikovskyOnThePunchline/shorts

A boy
Lives inside me
Beneath my skin that I paint with foundation, blush and dresses made of linen
He climbs my thoughts like tree branches and screams as loud as a lion
He watches in wonder as I trace my lips with liner and spray flowery scents on my arms, neck and face
He cries as men look at my figure and shout that they want a taste
As the boy I thought I loved touched me anyway
In places he doesn't even know how to say
The little boy goes back to a long time ago
When he was in a spotlight and was told to go
"There's no room for a boy when god chose you to be a girl"
So he lives inside of me
Watching me grow into the "women" I am
But he will always be there
Rolling around and being a lion

Broad shoulders, round belly
Thighs rock-hard standing steady
Torso full of honor, prestige and glory
Black shut eyes, and a head too weary
Clothed in oliver green, pride or envy?

Slimming waist, a gentle core
Pirouettes with grace, never a sore
Chest for embrace not for war
Satin, silk, velvet floors
This world of yours, mine for sure?

Colour spectrums echo within vision
Jealousy magnified on each selection
Rainbows and prisms radiate complexion
Building loops of personal perception
Toys to dolls, should be a simple question?

My grandpa said some harsh stuff,
I wondered if he’d had enough.
I tried not to cry,
Deep down, I hoped he knew why.

He said “Gender’s not even real”,
And anyone who thinks so should just deal.

I said, “They/them” folks want to be seen,
As people, not some in-between.
It didn’t seem silly or wrong to me,
In fact, I felt a kind of key.

A few years on, I learned to speak—
With sharper words, and less critique.

I fell and lost a ski,
The man helping called me a he.
I really loved it,
I didn’t know why but I did.

What should “being a woman” mean?
Does grandpa think I’m making a scene?

I never liked Disney princesses,
I hated wearing dresses.
I did like football,
Gender felt like a big brick wall.

My long hair, was to much to bear,
Cutting it off was a grasp for air.

Now my grandpa thinks I look like a boy,
I can’t help but think of gender as a toy.
A game you can cheat, but never quite win,
A myth I’ve stopped believing in.

Grandpa cling to a truth so small,
While I see no sense in a wall at all.

this body doesn't belong to you.
you want to crawl out of it,
and the only think you can think of
is how good it would feel
to just peel it off
and disappear.
you can hear them talk about you,
every word is like a slap in the face.
you feel small in this open space,
but their laughter resonates
and all the exits are locked.
so you try to make sense of it,
try to teach yourself their ways,
try to follow the rules of their game.
they say you can't win if you don't play,
but you haven't won yet.
this body isn't the one you chose.
you wish you could give it back,
write a complaint to the maker,
but they don't accept returns.
so you live through your thoughts,
dreaming of the day
when you can change your clothes,
your address, your name,
finally peel it off
and disappear.