The Butched Feminist

They walk past me, glaring.
Their eyes tracing, following my curves, my softness.
Women who hate and despise
all that I exude.
Petal pink, white linen, luscious lip gloss.
Those footsteps are familiar ones to me,
all along looking downward and refusing to believe what is true.

If you were to tread softly into the inner chambers
of those women's hearts,
Deep into the core of their feminine soul,
you would find this:
A small girl longing to wear pink, frilly dresses with a garland of wild flowers in her soft, curly hair.
A young girl ravenous for her daddy to tell her how beautiful she really is.
A woman searching for a place in this wild world that is protected and covered by a man's blessing.

My dear sister, I urge you to stop trying to prove what you are not.
Put your fists down and come out and play with me.