Dawn crept its fingers near my windowsill,
I could feel its warmth graze my face.
Grabbed my pocket mirror, accepted the
light into my pupils, my eyes became a philosopher.
I felt plagued with these masculine features.
Born with a small bust, that’s even if it qualifies
to even be in a sentence with the word itself.
Profiles emulating another identity that identifies another.
Even my earlobes are manly.
A chiseled chin, that could sculpt a better me.
Do I not deserve to feel pretty in a feminine perspective?
When I walk near other women, I feel like they think I’m
going to hit on them because of my features.
At times I would cut my forearm, then use my blood
to sketch an image I felt redeemable on alabaster paper.
I hate to live through these glorified magazines vicariously.
I tried to see a therapist, however, my shadow had other
places to be, nevertheless, I’d construct dolls.
Recreate a new civilization.
It’s my turn to play god.
I’ll create a pseudo-idealistic world with a plethora
of contradictions that riddle minds with its infectious
standards that need to be upheld.
Another feminist group can adopt me and attempt
to save me, but I’m privy to the whole, “we’re here
for you” scandal. I’m just another experiment to
showcase, another hedge in the lawn, that you’ll sculpt
Apart of me enjoys the psycho-masochism.
Another aches to exhale. I could be a coward and
get surgery, but then I’d been living by another creationist.
I wear a masquerade mask with imbued lackluster creationism