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the femmes want to have kissed a masc lesbian
no makeup except the dark blue kohl on her bottom waterline
glitter and sweat
fluffy hair, mess of curls, bleach-burned tips
doesn't shave
half-buttoned shirt
no bra
trail of dark curls you can trace from belly button to under the waistband of her boxers
henna spiracled hands wandering around your waist
the first helix piercing she got, healed well enough for you to twist
tell your friends, excitedly, that you made out with a masc lesbian
she'll find out, and this label will linger,
she'll write a poem about it
about the time she'd tied her hair back to take in the needle the first time
how she emerged bright-eyed, rim of blood around the metal
first time her best friend saw her as a boy
first time her best friend thought she could be pretty
about the Diwali she'd raised her arms in a sleeveless kurta
dark disgusting curls peeking out at the brown girls watching
how they called her brave
she tried on girlhood for the first time in years after that
let it it stick around for them
the
girl
boy
masc lesbian will wonder at
how easy it is: to be called that by the girls
in gentle makeup
in pretty dresses
bras
and lace underwear
and smooth skin
shining hair
how alien it must be: for you to see
a boy like her who still says she's a
girl
she's just like other girls and girls will be boys
but right now she's just the masc lesbian on your list
and you're clinging to the labels
and clinging to the performance
you make sure you're clinging to her
and that she pins you to the wall
and that her hands are on your hips because that's how it's supposed to go
and now you've made out with the masc lesbian, and now you can go tell your friends
and now you can look at your lips in the mirror to redo the gloss
and now you don't have to talk to her.