androgynous beauty ferments at the core of this masculine stigma, branded on me by this society. unable to unleash its being, whole. it was confining because to them, it was Pandora’s box. but to me. it was the fibers of my insecurities, woven into the fabrics of my being, my uniqueness. this fermentation has been rotting inside me. I am cold, but the cold is suffocating. drying the fermented wine that runs through my veins. veins drawn on by the pigments that mask by being, yet yields at the illustration of my abstract confidence. I am me, yet I am no one.