THE QUESTION

I stand before the mirror and examine my breasts. protruding forth from my chest and demanding kindness, free ice cream, and violence. my speckled face, freckled pale brown like organic eggs, ushes pink. my eyebrows unkempt and short hair untidy at the crown. I grip my buttocks. dissatised. I chase the paradox around my head. The filmy, sticky grain of femininity slides across my skin. It twinkles in every stare and as my weight shifts from hip to hip, I’m gliding as I walk. My clenched jaw, my small lips, my broad shoulders like an adolеscent boy. I worship at the altar of femininity in thе women who suckle the lavender from my breath. It poses nothing to me but a question to which I do not have the answer