For a long time I felt like my femininity was decided by the views of others.

 

The way I walked, the way I spoke.

Is my voice light enough? Kind enough?

I thought I was supposed to be honey.

 

Am I soft enough?

I couldn’t find the words to tell you I wasn’t when you touched me.

 

This body became a map of hidden scars, built up in three layers:

The first, like honey. The second made out of sand paper.

Covered in scar tissue.

 

Women have taught me how to tend my wounds.

Soaking my skin and smoothing over rough sand.

Making me feel whole.

 

Honey flows through this body, dripping from my hands onto the decision

to part from world views and to create my own.