The Inconstant Cup

My cup has been in front of me for as long as I can remember, filled with something that never tasted right, but obediently, I drank it. Today, I hear the clink of porcelain and look at the table next to mine.

They call themselves queens, with hair styled to the sky and dresses made from tulle, silk, and lace the color of sugar, with lips red like rose petals that cusp the edge of cups held in satin-gloved hands. Conversation is uttered casually, without the cast black shadow of the words faggot, tranny, trash that clash with the beauty of their fanlike lashes and lids like twilight blues, pinks, oranges, and golds. Queer sisters gather like twirling swans basking in clouds of glitter and dirty jokes.

Queen bees, I want to be like you. They pour honey in my cup and tell me to sip — it coats everything, sweet and sticky, oh how I ache to be pretty like a princess, they dress me up and blush my cheeks, turn me into the technicolor Disney dream that the girl twenty years ago would gush about. But this isn’t me, with eyes too dark to shine and brows too thick and sparse lines of hair above the lip and lashes that refuse to flutter. I refuse to utter “girl,” like it’s a curse, a crack in the reflection, leaves stuck to the bottom of the cup that get to be tossed with the rest of the bitter pot. What do I call myself?

They put whiskey in my cup and tell me to sip — it burns my throat like tears never shed, oh how I ache to be strong like those Guys on TV, with their hard looks and chiseled features, a spirit like a knife’s edge, corked and barreled and left to age. Forget my name — call me Clint, call me Indy, give me a whip and a trick up my sleeve, a gun that splits the night in two, a dick, and maybe a lady, too. The Cool Guys and the Queen Bees take me, deck me in dark leather and slick my hair, and lift me up and ask is this better? Is this you? But it’s not meant to be, not with a too soft face and not an ounce of grit that’ll fix this skin that wasn’t born to be a boy, let alone a man. What do I call myself?

Why do you have to call yourself anything? ask the Queens. Who says you can’t empty your glass and pour another, or mix and match until you find that perfect flavor of identity? Who says you have to be one thing or the other, so long as your cup is full and hot and fits into the palm of your hand? The answer lies in rose petal lips that kiss the rim of the cup and taste the leaves, the full-flavored body, your body the vessel.

| Lara Brugioni