“of course, baby”

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

goddamn body.

And so I hold my breath,

and bring my gaze to my own legs,

smiling slightly,


stereotypes cake my skin like paint


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.