“You cut your hair.” He said, glaring at me.
“Yes, I like it short.” I replied. What else was there to say?

“It’s not feminine.” He stated. Like it was a fact , something written in a manual.

I got angry, because who was he to define femininity for me. A word I could colour like a blank canvas, but he decided to take the brush and splatter black paint all over my work of art.

“Neither are your clothes.” He spoke while continuing to destroy. My insecurities rising, my knuckles turning white from clenching my fists.

“But they’re me.”

I’m still the one painting this picture, it’s for me to decide if I dress in combat boots or in lace and frills. I can feel feminine in whatever I put on my body, just like I can be masculine in stiletto heels. Because you see, I’m the artist here.

You can have your opinion, your own work of art , but you don’t have the right to shape mine. Because it’s easy you see…

“I paint my own picture of femininity.”.

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