My Tongue Is Too Big For My Mouth — Or Maybe It’s My Breasts

by Huda Shah

no one taught me how to talk to men. i stumble around my words, i cant pick up their gendered social cues. monotonous tones, dick measuring, heartless words. I present me as a fury. you get all of me, or none of me. i cant switch masks, or share sweetness with people who deserve none in my eyes.

i envy men. i envy my father. i envy my brother. i envy my friends to whom it all comes easily.

i was born from the same womb but stutter with a language so foreign, yet so accustomed to me. the men around me sail through, with raised eyebrows and half smirks.

i weld my way through my scanty socialization in territory not welcome to my seemingly lack of masculinity and testosterone floating out of my skull.

the disapproving stares, tongue clicks and eye rolls are default. the stares are more common but accepted fully. my breasts shape a soft semi circular figure on my chest bone. it is my fault it is not adorned with flatness and muscles.

the fragile tissue over bone will always be my kryptonite. and keep me a glass away from a segment of society of a class higher than elites.