The woman is a woman.
She is tall and poised, strong-willed and stubborn at best. She fights with bloody red on her lips and harsh kohl on her eyes.
The woman is a woman.
Her body was built to be calloused and hard, but her skin is smooth, colored in a beautiful shade of olive.
The woman is a woman.
She is a stunning brunette during Mondays, and a jaw-dropping blonde on Fridays.
The woman is a woman.
Her skirt is a complimentary red and it exhibits her long and waxed legs, along with the pumps strapped over her ankles, who's heels are sharp enough to poke out an eye.
The woman is a woman.
She is a speaker of alto tones, but her tenor when she sings? Mesmerizing.
The woman is a woman.
And every evening, after she wipes away the war paint off her lips and unclips her long mane to reveal short, black locks, she swallows down a pill, and a prominent but always concealed muscle bobs up and down as she washes the pill down with several gulps of water.
The woman is a woman.
When she slips into her bed and curls to her side to clutch at her growing chest, she reminds herself in her natural tenor that she is no man.
She is a woman.
For even without her red lips, sharp pumps and long flowing hair, she is still a woman.
≠
AN: our social studies class was all feminism this morning and I did this during CL (Christian Life class) bc I don't wanna talk about the church's history and bc I don't read enough trans women here and the fact that:
Trans women are included in the oppression of women in our society.
-a
YOU ARE READING
colours
Nezařaditelné"can you paint with all the colours of the wind," a bunch of scenes accompanied with plots I am yet to figure out © s.addy, 2014-2015
