I ask you if you think I am
and I hate every word before it
leaves my mouth.
I hate the way my body
speaks in insecurities,
the way your words are a
blanket I know I need.
“of course, baby”
I love this sentence just as
much as I hate it.
I hate my need for it,
my requirement of it for
safety within my own
And so I hold my breath,
and bring my gaze to my own legs,
I am not who you think I am.
Isn’t it funny that you would think that?
people-watching is my favorite past time,
but that is because I am pretending,
you cannot assign stories to people
and expect them to take it.
I know I like to wear dresses and my hair is long and
I paint my lips in pretty shades of pink but
I do not dream of picket fence kids.
I kiss girls instead of boys, actually.
I am not a fragile stemmed dandelion for you to rip from my home,
just to sing your wishes into the wind like a song.
I am not who you think I am,
unless I have told you so.