Sleep Well, Little Robin

leather or lace

I walk a fine line between and
contradict styles that I can't blend
or weave into one seamless me. Leather, patches on denim, fishnets, combat boots, metal, studs, blue hair, heavy eye bags and dark lips like bruises; tough, bad, callous, intimidating. Lace, long dresses, aprons, collars, doilies, cardigans, knitting, oxfords, floral, flannel, petticoats, bonnets, cloaks, dark hair for my dark eyes and the softness of a girl who lives among the trees. To be teary-eyed with no regret, classic, gentle, lithe and waifish, but more than that, vulnerable and comforted.

I can't walk between tough and vulnerable. I want to look like olden girls who live in forests, natural and gentle, who urge you to be nice to them and who you feel guilt when you betray. But I cultivated my metal, my black, my fishnets, my dark lips all like war paint and armor to keep people far from hurting me. I put on leather to show I've tougher skin than the dead things I wear. Though I think, perhaps if I wore lace and I flowed like falling leaves, they would feel guilty when I'm trampled... Even just once.

No one feels their sins when you're the demon in the armor, but that's because they don't understand you're not trying to fight, just protect. Like a porcupine, the studs and spikes ward off predators but like all prey, it's not an immunity and the world gets to you just the same.

I want to break down, cover myself in the lace and tears I denied myself.