in which i perforate

by nat raum

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i. something about gender euphoria
and a newfound love for fashion at age 
eleven looked like thousands of screenshots
of virtual paper dolls pasted into Microsoft 
paint landscapes. my kind of little girl dragged
boyclothes over girldolls, sometimes finding
fits but also finding that bodies are only so fluid,
even onscreen where i can pretend i’m
the mall goth of my dreams for a weekend.

ii. there wasn’t a pair of brindle uggs or a polo
shirt embroidered with a moose or seagull
that could make me girl enough for the schoolyard.
every shade of black and skulls i bought
on clearance said fuck you, preps a little more; 
by summer vacation i’d sealed it with a trim
of permafrizzed dishwater hair from the small of my
back to the fold of ear cartilage i’d pierce
on a whim at twenty-two.

iii. paradise was painted in lilly pulitzer palms
when i was five and my best friend’s mom said
i was a winter, whatever that meant in the early
aughts or before or after. i should have wanted
popstar eyelashes and french-tipped fingernails,
teengirl aquapink everything. when there was
no version of lady that fit her, my kind of little 
girl settled for sculpting her dreamsuit on stardoll, 
then bought it a boy-bodied basketball jersey to wear 
with a pleated skirt and kitten heels in its bedroom.