When you look at me… 
what do you see? 

Do you see a woman? 
Or do you see what the world tells you I shouldn't be? 

Do I threaten your comfort 
because I wear my strength like cologne 
buttoned-down, boots on, 
voice low, soul known? 

You call it masculine. 
I call it mine. 

I’ve spent years 
sewing myself back together 
with pieces they told me didn’t fit 
soft curves, sharp edges, 
a gentle hand, a fuck-you stare. 
they called it contradiction. 
i call it survival. 
i call it me. 

You want me to be quiet. 
You want me to shrink. 
But I was raised by Black women 
who taught me how to stand 
when the world told me to sink. 

You say I’m trying to be a man 
cause I sag my jeans and keep my line-up clean. 
But you don’t know the weight 
of carrying this face 
Black, queer, visible, 
in a world that tries so hard to erase. 

You think I'm lost? 
Baby, this is what found looks like. 
This is what healing in broad daylight looks like. 
This is what "I love who I am" sounds like. 

And don’t you dare question my womanhood 
because you can’t box it. 
I don’t need your permission 
to exist in this body, 
this voice, 
this skin. 

I am sacred. 
Even when you don’t understand me. 
Even when you can’t name what I am 
Even when you try to call me confused 
because my love doesn’t fit your plan. 

And when I become a mother 
not “Father,” 
I will not let you stereotype me  
Just loving my babies 
the way a mother should. 

With care, 
with presence, 
with peace in my voice 
and fire in my protection. 

They’ll know they’re safe with me. 
They’ll know love without question. 

I won’t raise them to fit in— 
I’ll raise them to be free. 
To trust who they are, 
and never let this ugly world 
shape what they’re meant to be. 

Because I may walk like thunder, 
but my spirit is still rain. 
I may wear this snapback, 
but my womb still holds pain. 
I may sag my pants, 
but my soul still nurtures. 
I am fire and foundation— 
a Black woman 
with no need for your permission