In college, my gay friend called my shoes
Lesbian shoes. They were Birkenstock
knockoffs, worn fake leather sandals.
Anytime I wore them, or anything
he deemed unfashionable: Lesbian.
One Friday night, he declared that maybe I was
a lesbian. Everyone laughed at this wild thought,
an idea as ridiculous as their boyfriends’
wearing stilettos. My roommate once called me
Obviously Pretty, meaning too blonde, too
cheerleader, too Cinderella not to decorate
a man’s arm, hope he chases after me
at midnight. Me, a lesbian? Even more
far-fetched than any fairytale we grew
up reading, than any dream I dared
to dream. I played along, joked that maybe
this explained my questionable fashion
choices, why every time I found myself
in a man’s arms, I wanted to crawl out
of my skin. And maybe his queerness
saw my queerness, maybe it was a truth
I could only face dressed in alcohol and laughter,
disguised as a joke, the glass slipper I tried on
in the glitter of night and took back
off again when morning came.
