Dear self,
It's okay, you don't have to feel so guilty when you come home after shopping with Tina, when you come home with a bra that "lifts up you're boobs to where they are suppose to be." It's okay that you had anxiety attacks in dressing rooms, that you agreed to things you were uncomfortable with, its okay to be stressed and anxious about the fact you were cornered. It's okay to hate your breasts, its okay to love them, they are yours and what others say about their existence is of no importance (unless they are a doctor.) It's okay to have a preference for dark colors, for sharp edges and screaming reds, as long as you understand the appeal of others and their preferences, its okay to decline "ladies clothes." because there is a line between what is needed, and what others need you to be, there is a line between what you feel good in and what others feel good about you in.
When Tina tells you that she understands you're want for blacks and silvers, understand the fact that she made a choice to undertake what people said about her and change for them, and understand that you have a choice and not to hate her for she what had grown to be. because when she tells you that you must change your clothing, tell her about how the stunning reds feel like a second tougher skin (unbreakable, even in the eyes of god and those who hate you), how your mothers leather jacket feels like the armor you have always wanted (raging endlessly with your mothers siren voice, her howling bravery and protection) how the sharpness of studs and the starkness of white is a guiding hand of confidence that no evil can touch, (your fathers gracious smile and jokes, your brothers endless kindness to those so small and glass-like) your heavy boots ground you, not
letting your legs shake. And when you need to impress, place on your sharpest dress and your shotgun-sounding heels and you are untouchable, you are divine and you are Athena, Aphrodite, Icarus, and you are human to your core. understand that the sobs that wrack your body, to the chorus of "I don't want to be a
girl," remind yourself you were not born guilty of what sits between your legs, they are there because you feel so trapped in this world of being girl-women (always denied and imposed upon.) the signals of self doubt are only the left over cries of men who you have ruined and sung to their deaths.
dressing like a "lady" does not entail giving up your second skin, does not mean ripping out your heart and dropping your solidarity to be only what you want to see and be in this world, It means becoming a femme fatale and eating glass, it means a gun that hides between your lips and your breasts, it means allowing only the see-able parts to act tame. allow yourself to become
like a rageful sea, hold hands with lovely girls that gather up your heart in blooming spring, kiss those you deem worthy. create boundaries and turn them into warnings, cry
loud and spiteful, refuse to back down and stare down those who deem you sinful. laugh louder than expected, tell good jokes and bad ones, miss half the steps and stomp where
ever possible, you are free free free.
