I'm not always this femme

A poem about gender identity, life, and ocelots

If I had to describe my aesthetic it would be hiking boots and hot red lipstick
Or else grass stained lace with flowers growing up out of it
For a long time I rejected this.
I had no need of soft things,
I saw only the weakness of a single petal of rose
And I wanted to be only the thorn bush.
I'm still perplexed by the duality of an ocelot
Both graceful and  pointed
I wish someone would teach me how to always land on my feet.
But after hours of un-learning
After hours of putting on lipstick in the mirror
Just to swipe it off again
And days of pulling skirts over leggings in small concessions to false modesty
And years of trying to catch the sunset under trees and through windows
I have learned there can be steel under finely latticed lace
I have learned there is no shame in loving sparkly jewelry and no virtue in loving dirt and tired muscles
And no contradiction to loving both.
After years of practice
I have learned there's no shame in being who I am.