Butch is a word my mother growled at me
when I was a teenager who reminded her too closely of the adolescense she barely escaped
it was my purple nailpolish and thick chain necklace
and each tear I shed was a reason I thought that was my feminine side.
Butch was a cloak that kept teachers and counselors from seeing my rape
in the crowded hallways filled with other shadows my cries were drown out
by what, I couldn't quite tell from down there on the chipping tiles
but butch was the dent, ever so small and shallow, my skull made in the grey metal locker door.
When I left my shell of a body to fend for itself between 2002 and 2008
my butch went with me.
I was replaced with a doe-eyed robot that I couldn't quite love
but couldn't truly hate.
She still knows her name and answers when I call out
in my sleep, remembering and reliving the feeling
of being both at once invisible and a target.
Butch is a word I whisper to myself in the mirror first or second thing in the morning
it holds my hand when I travel my own curves
like a desert wasteland strewed with the bleached bones left by scavengers
their glaring whiteness a testement to how long ago they were judged by the birds as unfit to eat.
Butch is a place in the shade, sheltered from unrelenting questions, like
Is anyone strong enough to hold you?
Are you deep enough to embody the love you need?
Will anyone read all the way to the last line?
If nobody does, then what are you doing here?
Is this still a poem if only some of the words rhyme?
Does anybody swoon over a butch?
