The imprint of your mask
has turned into a scar,
its pressure so tight,
that you’ve forgotten who you are.
Let me tell you who you are…
Not mother or wife,
or nurse or guard,
but woman,
your platforms giving a platform
where femininity is an artform
comprised of tailored dresses
that reveal more leg,
and lips that are painted
the brightest shade of red
and exaggerated makeup
and ‘babe, will you hurry up?
I need help fastening this
across my chest.’
There’s something about the whole ‘drag-esque’ process,
matching lace on shirts to lace in hair
to blazers and trousers and…
power
that acts as a massive kick in the teeth
to all the small-minded freaks
who try to dictate how a woman can dress.
AKA. the majority of men.
The equivalent of Nepo babies
their opportunities are handed to them on a silver platter,
all the while women are left to collect the crumbs
(the fact that they made the platter, apparently, doesn’t matter) …
‘Don’t eat.’
It’s refreshing, in this era of Ozempic
(and all the other diet shit)
to have women not take the metaphor of gorgeous,
‘drop-dead’,
literally.
Taking up all the space they want to take up,
unapologetically,
there’s something so undeniably powerful about women.
May we know them. May we be them. May we raise them.
ADA LOVELACE (1815–1852).
Portfolio of Hope 