What is Femininity?

Is femininity only pinks, whites, and pastels, 

soft and soothing, never unsettling? 

Is it the smoothness of my skin, 

no bump, no hair, no trace of anything real? 

Is it being quiet, calm, and loving, 

polishing the boots that regularly trample over me? 

Feeding into the jealousy bred from misogyny, 

but never indulging in too much of anything 

repressed by the fear of taking up too much space. 

Is this what femininity looks like? 

Does it vanish when I wake up angry, 

refusing to pretend everything is perfect? 

Or when I don’t embellish myself to oblivion  

to please the eyes gazing back at me? 

If nothing in nature blooms all year, 

then why am I expected to? 

What happens to it when I stand tall, 

when I speak loudly, 

when I refuse to be pushed back down? 

What if it bleeds away in crimsons, maroons, and fiery reds 

staining the hands that try to silence me? 

 Is my femininity bound to a cage— 

a body and soul wrapped tight, 

to be used, stored, discarded when convenient? 

No. 

My femininity is a gift, 

layered in complexities, contradictions, and power. 

Perhaps wrapped in pink frills and soft lace, 

enthralling only those too shallow to see beyond the surface. 

But I do not fret  

for those who truly wish to perceive me 

shall be granted with what lies within.  

Something passionate,  

something precious  

something pure beyond imagination. 

Because that is the essence of femininity.