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Femininity. A word with too many repetitions in sound. Too many ‘i’s. It’s a word that’s too hard to say, it doesn’t make sense. I’ve read books on it, I’ve tried to emulate it; but it’s always evaded me.

Does it mean princesses in pink dresses? Does it mean wearing flowers in your hair? Does it mean mastering modest makeup? Does it mean elegant hair and much time spent on it? Does it mean being loved by a boy?

Perhaps it means becoming a grown woman. But I am a grown-up woman; don’t try to tell me otherwise. Please don’t tell me otherwise. I am feminine, don’t tell me otherwise, please don’t tell me otherwise.

“Tomboys are unnatural. No boy will like a tomboy. No man can love a strong-willed woman.” The voices in my head run over and over; knocking me down, driving my face into the dust. I am not dust, I am not dirt; God breathed life into me.

Why am I not fighting these voices? I let lying words smear my face into the mud.

I am feminine. Eccentric, a daydreamer, and a tomboy–but I am feminine. Don’t try to tell me otherwise.

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