Femme as Weapon

I see you there in the corner, sharpening your lipstick on a whetstone.

Yes, you.

I see you building your 'lipstick and work boots' aesthetic like a brand.

When they held up a skirt and called it 'flimsy'

I saw you sew on the rivet reinforced pocket.

I know that when the see your femme they think weak

I know that to you femme means strong.

You find support in the stilettos of a red heel,

Reclaim your eyelids with gold glitter

Smelt that shade of fuchsia into a color so bright it'll burn the inside of your eyelids.

And secure the whole effect with countless bobby pins.

I see you reclaiming femme

Claim it for the queers, to prove that flannels aren't the only thing women who love women wear

Claim it for the tall women, the strong women, the loud women, the women who are told they take up too much space

Claim it for men, and anyone not a man or a woman.

You will fight for femme for yourself and then for everyone else and damned if you won't use razor-edged earrings as a shank if you have to.

I see you fitting femme over your head like a body conn dress

One size fits all and makes your ass look fabulous

Work boots and lipstick and carhartts and pink skirts with a poodle sewn on the rim

Dancing and farming and camping and knowing how to cook some bad ass challah bread

I see you under hashtags like 'gamergirlz' and 'fangirl' and 'basicbitch' learning how to use their language to define yourself on your own terms.

I see you claiming femme for yourself

So that every time anyone asks if you're dressed up for a man

You have a snappy comeback written in curlicues

So that every time someone tells you men don't like women in makeup 

You have a winged eyeliner glare sharp enough to draw blood

It's hard for them to understand that your femme isn't for anyone but you

You don't measure your value tallied on compliments and dates

At least, not on a good day.

So that your femme belongs to you and no one else.