I present: my presentation,
My buds and blossom, leaves and lichen,
Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair:
Hold the sharpness of my jawbone,
Spy the ridge upon my brow,
Hear the tembre of my voice,
You can't fail to notice the eyeliner I've practiced so much,
But you might have missed my badges, or that I'm called "partner"
(I am no cowgirl)
Do you think "queer" when I present myself? Am I giving "they"?
Most of a tree is beneath the ground, but let's have a look:
Count my rings: the four past sixteen are all gifts,
I've been growing for as long as I can remember,
The bright colours which first drew me,
The Americans online who showed me what HRT meant,
The distant drag artists who taught me how to do that eyeliner,
And the dead butch lesbians who taught me solidarity,
And how to have your masculinity and eat it, too,
So push up through the dirt and have another look,
You see all my grafts now, and you know about my roots,
But I'm just a tree,
And this metaphor has dragged on far too long,
So what are you?