Featured Post: Stone Butch Blues – M.A. Morris

(paying for your butch ego)

The fragility of the butch ego
To which we are slave,
Must be soothed by us,
Whispered to and petted,
In private,
As well as public,
So they can strut,
Cock of the walk.

Should their ego be slightly scratched,
A minor scratch that should be paid for by
Lips and tongue and sweet words,
Yet such currency is deemed unacceptable, rejected.
And so we must pay the price.
Have our own selves bound and lashed
By that stone butch cruelty,
Containing not a thing we crave.
Our every flaw memorized, learned by rote,
Recited daily,
As if a lamentation and a prayer
Were needed
To remind us of the
Imperfections of hip and thigh,
Of eye, nose, lips, and face,
Of breast and belly.
And before long, even of mind and soul.
Soon we become,
Not enough.
Our totality,
Added up
And blessed
Within the filthy
Ropes of our shortcomings,
No artistry within the knots.
—-All utilitarian in their purpose.

After you are gone,
One dear friend
Should hold a picture up to us,
A challenge to look.
Us, anew.
Nothing is different.
Yet we see not the list of imperfections
You used as a balm to your crackling, preening ego.

Now, that which was long missing has returned.
A fire kindled in the eyes.
Mischief and kindness curl the lips.
And life, glorious life, shines below the surface of skin.
I did gladly sacrifice the fire,
The mischief, the humor and kindness,
The life beneath the surface of the skin
To shroud and cradle
Your precious crystalline, fragile ego
So it would not break.
My diminished self, the glue
Which held the broken, chipped
Edges of your ego together.
Thus, you could assure yourself
Of your right to bluster
And strut in cockiness,
Telling yourself and me
I was lucky to have you
As you turned your face to the wind
And let your hair whip behind you.

Now, I place that pony tail
In the bottom of my jewelry box,
Laid to rest like so many things.

As you wait for me,
Think of me renewed,

I am a retired teacher, enjoying said retirement.  I have been active in the gay and lesbian community since I threw away my Ken doll at the age of four.

You can read more of my writing at Hearing The Mermaids Sing


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