I am not my own.
As a woman, I am meant to be
Agreeable. Quiet. Pleasing.
As a queer woman,
I am not meant to be at all.
I am not my own.
My existence runs deep
in the erasure of femininity,
and the screams of those who came before me.
And yet, we’re still not free.
We are not our own.
Standing at the mercies of
those who think they can tell us what we ought to be.
They don’t know how we’re still here.
Holding the age-old knives that bruised our lungs.
We must be our own.
Why must I change my clothes and my posture
to exist outside my home?
Why can’t I love her
without fear of the unknown?
We are real people,
each with their own name.
We will be our own,
and set the world ablaze
in a rainbow-colored flame.
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