Cost of the Mask

I caught a glimpse in the long mirror,

my sister’s scowl sharpening the air,

her disappointment pressing like a hand,

when I chose sweatpants instead of a dress—

an armor of cotton that feels right,

not a polished facade fitting for family meals.

What’s the cost of this femininity,

layers of expectations, strung like pearls,

a string of careful smiles,

that crack when I step out of line,

and for a moment I am tired of being good,

of fitting neatly into someone else’s box.

What if I want to be raw, unrefined,

a woman in all her contradictions, proud?

Can I wear my truth like a badge,

instead of this mask? A question that lingers,

like the wear of old shoes on a long road.