femininity

lingers between my independence and me

running a soft invitation

along the ridges of my resolve 

to unclench my calloused fists

that i wore like proof of what i'd survived

femininity whispers

that i don't have to harden to be held

nor ache to be enough

that it's okay to let softness take root

in place of iron-clad resilience

but i am afraid

of unthreading the seams

of the only identity i've ever known

can i shed my armour?

pour myself onto this floor

in all my wallows and miseries?

is it finally safe to be both the sword,

and the silk that cradles the wounds?

is it possible to love,

to soften without breaking?

at what age will i finally be able to exhale?