I am more than my shoes,
Even the brown brogues I wear
Day in day out to work and which
Are rubbed smooth on the soles.

I am more than the cheap-end shirts
That hide my ******* and that you
Frown at, openly, at the shop, the park,
On the bus after a long day.

I am more than the number zero
That you can see, and the underwear
That you can’t, although that
Doesn’t stop you asking.

I am tough or tender, depending
On who we are and what you mean to say.
I am hard in places you have no need of,
And soft in those you don’t think I know.

I am butch, and I have blended every
Ill word, and unkind glance into the step
Of my swagger and the spread of my legs,
And the pride I put into loving my woman.

I am butch; I wear it on my sleeves,
And my calloused hands. The word is sewn
Into the hem every pair of jeans I own,
As it is on the inside of my thick skin.