Each year, new quirks
reveal themselves as I drop
cloaks of expectations painted

onto me in layers so thin,
I thought they were who I am
instead of imposed

notions of womanhood.
I find delight in shedding them like
old skins trailing behind me making

a map of who I was until I learned
I could discard the weight of other
people’s fears, free to be me.

Loved or hated for my attributes,
they are mine, and
I celebrate without apology.