“I’m a writer” I whisper as I look up war statistics
“I’m a writer” I whisper as I look up when the blender was invented
“I’m a writer” I whisper as I figure out how many times you can get shot without dying
“I’M A WRITER” I shout when someone uses my laptop and I left the page open to stab-wound references.
“I’M A WRITER!” I yell as I stare at a wall for hours instead of actually writing.
"I’m a writer", I tell myself as I open the doc and then instead switch over to Spotify and make a playlist for the reception of the wedding the characters are attending.
"I’m a writer," I tell myself as I meticulously plan the fake class schedule of my characters’ fake college even though the classes themselves are of little to no importance to the actual plot. This also involves mentally sketching the entire campus map.
I am femme. I am femme in the most feminine of ways. I love the look of soft colors of pretty glittery things. I love the smoothness of lipstick on my mouth, and the way it leaves my mark, like a fingerprint, when I kiss someone’s cheek. I love the easy weight of diamonds in my ears or the smooth slide of pearls around my neck. I sometimes sit infont of the mirror and watch myself as I brush and brush my hair, marvel at how long and thick and beautiful it is. I love the smell of perfume on my skin. I love the way may stockings feel when I roll them up my thighs, the satisfying snap as I clip my garters to them, holding them up. I love the feeling of a corset being tightened around my waist, hot pink and shimmery and absolutely perfect. I dress in lace and flowers and soft colors because they make me happy.I paint my nails and pluck my brows and strap up my heels because it makes me feel good. If there is ever an option of ‘not pants’ that’s always the option I’ll take.
But even more than all these things I love the way the breeze plays with my hair, or the way rain weighs it down and makes me feel like a wild woman when it drips across my scalp. I love the heavy sound of my leather boots as they pound the trial while I hike. I love the soft touch of young beech leaves, the sour crunch of wood sorrel between my teeth. I love the smooth feel of a snakes scales as they slither through my hands, not a threat to them or them to me, just warm moving jungle gym for their pleasure. I love the feel of a tiny salamanders feet as he crawls across my palm, or the awe in a child’s eyes when they watch these scenes play out. I love the feeling of the sun and the rain soaking into my skin, of dirt under my nails, between my fingers. I love the smell of spring and fall and winter because no matter the season the earth is always beautiful to me. It’s my mother and my father and my best friend. It bring me peace and life and purpose. It is where I see and hear and speak to my God. But most of all, most of all, I love the way the branches and twigs and grass, all the little fingers of the earth, reach up to tug at my skirt, to pull me back down to where I belong.
Because fuck what the world says. I can be who I am. Nature is nothing if not feminine. It’s life giving, it’s powerful, it’s faithful, it’s immovable. So if you try to tell me the woods is not place for a woman, I will laugh in your face. If you tell me my skirt has no place in the woods you are wrong. My place is where I chose it to be I chose to be here. I chose to be femme, I chose to be wild, I chose to be me. And there is nothing you can do to stop me from hiking in skirts if I so please.