When I cough up the word
“woman”
It doesn't come up willing,
drags
through my throat like sandpaper,
resistance at every inch,
getting caught in the layers
of lace and white lies when
I spit it out.
Like how I used to
trace the glee
down the curves of my silhouette,
revel in the excitement
of a little black dress until
I caught the hunger
in someone else's gaze,
corset tight, reminding me
these clothes were never
made for my enjoyment,
are only
the pretty place setting
for a meal some man’s been waiting
to sink their teeth into.
No matter how I change
the package I can’t
convince them I am anything
but consumable,
Can’t even convince myself
I’ll outlive this expiration date.
How quickly I learned
to be confined
by someone else's expectations.
Stepped forward to fill
the hollow outline of a woman,
did what was demanded believing I needed
the praise to prove I was real.
How ironic, I forgot my own
fluid truth in the process.
Sometimes,
(when I'm high)
I realize how much time
I spend avoiding my own face
in the mirror, so detached
its like dressing a doll,
and I, the ghost inside,
am all too aware
how no part of me is still
mine
from the moment I’m perceived.
I cling to “nonbinary”
like the last life raft, but how
can I be sure
if I know who I am,
or if all I know
is that being a woman
just feels too unsafe.
Sometimes
I want the freedom
to look like a woman.
But not ‘woman’ in the way
it rolls lazily off the tongue.
Less ‘woman’
as Eve was to Adam
and more
Immortal Fae Creature,
Unknowable Cosmic Entity
artfully disguised inside
the shape of a woman.
The kind of woman who,
when I wear a suit, you
do a double take, unsure
what looked so feminine in the first place,
while I
hold up the glamor
of a gentle masculinity
in the way I weigh
my hands down with metal,
draw the eye
to less delicate lines like
I can convince you this jawline
is more chiseled
just by willing it to be.
I’ll keep fighting to find
the best fit for my features,
and every time lose the battle
over this body when
I never wanted it
to begin with.
I want to be soul,
and smoke,
and stardust,
I want to be
all Florence
and even more Machine
all Mad Hatter,
endless tea party
the ambiguity
between genius and insanity
I want to be ageless
timeless,
always in motion,
to hold an ancient secret
in the upturned corner
of my lips, so enticing you
have to lean in to hear it.
If I am going
to be seen as a woman
all I want
is for the choice
to be mine.
Mica L. Rich (they/them) is a New England writer whose poetry explores themes of trauma and its effect on healing and identity, valuing the strength and bravery found in vulnerability. Their work aims to provide an outlet for people struggling to find their own voices in a world that would often rather not hear them. Mica’s poetry has appeared in several journals and collections, such as The Avocet, Inkwell, and Wingless Dreamer’s Dark Poetry Collection, as well as being published on NHPR.com. Their first collection, This Is How Wildflowers Grow, can be found through Barnes & Noble or in person anywhere Mica performs. Mica is an organizer at Slam Free or Die, is the Assistant Editor for Poetry Society of New Hampshire’s Touchstone Journal,, and works as a teacher, tutor, and freelance editor. Find Mica online at www.micalediting.net/poetry Instagram and Tiktok: @feral_fairy_poet Facebook: Mica Rich