bel

my armpit hair makes me feel more like myself, and if it makes you less attracted to me or alters your perception of how feminine i am, you are the one with an issue; not me.

Here's to the femmes whose expression lies in the macarbe. Art filled red with blood, and wardrobe filled black and silver. Jars of bones and hair and herbs.

Here's to the femmes whose expression lies in nature's song. The howl of the wind. The bold heat of the sun on their skin, and the smell of eucalyptus and petrichor.

Here's to the femmes whose expression lies in the sweat on their brow and the strength of their lift. The rush of adrenaline and endorphins. The beauty in their form and focus.

Here's to the femmes whose expression lies in the tap of their heels on tiles. The way their voice commands a room. Warm printer ink, signature signed.

Here's to the femmes whose expression lies in the paint on your apron and the beadwork your mother taught you. The songs you made up with your cousins over your childhood summers will be the lullabies your children fall asleep to.

Here's to the femmes whose expression lies in the layer of fat on top of your soup, the bubbling of yeast and the smell of onion, garlic, and rosemary.

Here's who the femmes who's expression lies in the strum of the bass and the bang of the drum. Grimey venues with sticky floors, full of screaming, sweat, and fiery passion.

Here's to the femmes whose expression lies in decedant fabrics galore. Velvets and satins and ruffles and lace. Rhinestones and ribbons. Leather and linens.

Here's to femmes whose expression lies in enjoying the simplicities of life. The smell of the jasmine tree on the walk home from book club. The changing of the leaves. The way their barista knows them by name.