So, there's been a lot of talk around Harvard about queerness and appearance: how much does the way you present yourself reveal who you are (ie, whether or not you're queer, and if so, what type o' queer you are)?
As Quench's resident grumpy femme - and also its resident vocal lunatic - I've been especially conscious of my appearance lately, especially as I a) start a new relationship and b) try and get my depression under control. The way I look, I'm coming to realize, almost always sends a message, often one which means more than how I act.
Like this one.
I wear my sadness
I wear my sadness on the sleeve
Of my oldest threadbare sweatshirt.
I wouldn't be caught dead in it
If I weren't somehow dead already.
I wear my sadness on my feet,
Cobbled into flat, frumpy shoes.
It follows at my heels
When stilettos' proud clack would be a lie.
I wear my sadness on my scalp,
A wig of my own hair, slick or matted.
It takes energy to make anything shine,
And I won't waste what little I have.
I wear my sadness like a shroud,
Covering my body, but not veiling my face.
So no matter how much I smile for you,
I will wear my sadness on my sleeve.
13 Oct. 2005