my paper skin is the vehicle of my demise—

i am cold, thin and brittle;

     everything a man is not. 

they tell me i’m a woman:

a gem to put in a jewellery box

the centrepiece of their ring

     made to look pretty 

i want 

to be rough, like the backs of my hands 

     to be invited to the gala 

—wearing a suit of charcoal  

with a tie around my neck pulled tight 

and then maybe i won’t look so pretty.

a promise was made for me to drown

in a sea of tulle and sparkles but 

     the glitter is itchy:

i did not make the promise i am a bystander 

in the decision that was whispered over a glass 

of whiskey and chardonnay—

     i was handed the chardonnay 

though i wanted the whiskey i wanted the burn.

     the simplicity of man: 

a mere dream on the blades of my scissors

so i wear the skirt and the crown and relish

the sash hanging off my shoulder: i am pretty. 

     life is easier that way; 

i participate in the pageant but i am homesick—

—in this customisable body, i have picked 

     and chosen the parts

which match up in my head but not in the mirror.

i sip the whiskey because i don’t like chardonnay; 

     so why won’t anyone take this glass away? 

i ask for the whiskey time and time again 

always wondering if i can handle the burn— 

     i don’t know. 

i sit idle in the bowls of their rings 

     ((a decorative coin)) 

a pageant winner in a satin gown

and the paper-thin skin of someone’s daughter.

rose blush on the makeup brush of my inconsistencies:

     —pretty, and nothing else.