“look at her legs”

"why are her legs so hairy?"
"another lesbian. I wish they would wear jeans."
"ugh. no one wants to see that."

My legs are how they are because that is how I like them.
I am not a lesbian.
Maybe in another life.
actually, see, you have to be a girl to be a lesbian,
and you also have to not be attracted to men.
No, I'm not a girl,
"girl" feels like tight shoes, like, it's no shirt, no shoes, no service, and I have to wear my flats from five years ago inside
because I have GOT to get to that bathroom with the wrong sign -
girl is tight shoes;
boy is an outfit I admire
on those who wear it, but I have no interest in making it my attire.
I do not wear either of these;
I walk around barefoot
and clothe myself in whatever colors speak my mind.

"no one wants to see that."
......
really?
have you seen the legs, though?
I never have to be alone with my desires
 if I don't want to be.
the kind of men I like
don't care about the hair -
they stare because of the dope-ass shapely calves and thighs,
and the stare is invited.
(This is not the street.)

let's step back.

let's you step back
and me step forward
to clarify, while
for a change,
I do not have to hide -
while, for a change,
you are here to see me,
and I am prepared to explain;
I have a poem ready to go, a thesis;
not the few comebacks I actually carry in my head
in anticipation
of nastiness from strangers;
for a change,
I am not passing you on the sidewalk
and there is no need to double-take,
you may take all of me,
it's okay,
do it with your eyes
if it helps you listen;

let's go,
after all,
here I am on the witness stand
testifying
this is the trial
aren't we investigating the murder of the person I "used to be"?
my mother tries to support me now
but she is wearing black, she mourns
the long, pin-straight hair
smooth, golden, gleaming strands of wheat
that once rippled over a silent plain
then were cut into a heap
on the hairdresser's hardwood floor
someone else now wears that corpse
I gave away what I did not need.
It is someone else's crop to reap.
and
mom hangs her head behind the stand,
in black clothes she would otherwise never own,
my hair! - tit-length! -
I would skinny dip and pretend to be a mermaid! -
she mourns -
the matching dresses I once wore without asking why,
the name that tasted foreign in my mouth
and the muscle memory my hands once had
writing it quickly, when I did not wonder why
it felt artificial to introduce myself
why my gender-neutral nickname felt so much more
like mine,
like a path I chose joyfully,
not one I had been forced to take to avert gazes
like hound-dogs' baying
letting me know my different is not welcome,
it is prey,
better get used to being chased -

The makeup pad from Dillards!
She mourns!
One time, when I was twelve I said hey, mom, I don't have any makeup,
Oh! My little girl! Growing! Becoming whole!
they took me to the mall
where a professional explained to me
foundation, and mascara, and lip gloss
like no one would EVER explain to me
first-downs and running backs and scrimmages
(they never thought to)
but I liked a couple shades of lip stain and so my mom
bought two
two weeks later
I forgot about it
liked my face just fine;
hated washing it off at night
it now collects dust!
My mother was silent.

I testify:
I stopped shaving my legs
this is the whole truth -
that's all I meant.
That if I liked my legs just fine,
why should I spend twenty to thirty minutes of my time
every few days
and money on cream and razors
fixing up my texture
for the male gaze -
to both avoid it and maintain it?
No. No thanks.
I stepped back and thought about why
and I realized there was no why,
I like my legs fine.
I don't need to censor myself for passersby -
there is no obscenity here;
I don't need to smooth myself for other eyes,
for spectators to whom my life
is a passing piece of scenery;
I simply chose omission
I had been doing - shaving - and then I didn't.

My mother cross-examined me.
What kind of message are you trying to send? Hm?
What do you mean by this?
Why are you rebelling?
Find a more productive way to get attention.
She said, verbatim,
"Find a more productive way to get attention."
So I sat down and got some shit written.

Hey, why wasn't it a phase when I wanted my face painted
I almost fell in step with those who highlight and smooth their features in order to face the day
And that was perfectly okay.
That was a milestone,
this -
is me pushing my limits?
What the fuck?
This is me angry?
Me confused?
This is fake?
Can't I just be?
Can't I just convey the color I know I am?
I don't care if people will point when they see it -
I just need to be it -
I just need to be.
I get high on not hiding.

I stepped up this stage
because being seen
for who I actually am
is something I have always craved.
and the craving for eyes never goes away,
so I get on stage and devour them.
I am insatiable.
I have perfected my expression,
I am part vain
and part desperate to give you a window-pane
sparkling clean,
see straight inside of me
now that I am free
to do away with the shutters they
constructed before the contents, the soul of this room;
before anyone knew what kind of domain
they'd be looking into -

it’s my home.
this is just how i like it.
welcome.