Entry Four: Pretty, but a Problem

I’m not for everyone—and those people? Yeah. They’re definitely not for me. I have taste.

Thoughts & Confessions Turned into Verses

I’m not a woman--
nor do I wish to be.
But I understand the ache.
To be studied, not seen.
To be picked apart
for the way you speak,
dress,
exist.
I was born with their echoes--
then was shunned
for a femininity I can’t change.
Some nights,
I stare into the mirror and feel them flicker through me.
Not as ghosts,
but as gestures I’ve embodied--
the tilt of a chin,
the pause before the tears,
the smile that survives even when it shouldn’t.
Men adored Marilyn’s pretty—until she wore it with pride.
Women noticed Marilyn’s shine—then punished her for not dimming.
Men wanted Anna’s vulnerability—then humiliated her for having it.
Women celebrated Anna’s confidence—then judged her for being too bold.
And I know that gaze.
To be called beautiful,
and treated like the shame they can’t unfeel.
To be told you’re an inspiration—then quietly exiled for it.
I am too much
in a body that was never allowed to be whole.
You only understand the courage it takes to be feminine
when softness is the only language your body speaks.

​Penned in the Glow of the Mirror

The mirror never lied to me. It showed a boy the world had no language for—and who was punished for trying to create one that made sense to him, without ever saying sorry.

Now, personally—I don’t make being gay my whole personality. But I won’t shrink it either.

I’m a person. With contradictions, complexities, layers that require attention. I walk like I’m whole, suffer like I’m being filmed. Glamorize pain like it’s opening night—it’s how I cope.

I romanticize tragedy. My heart is high-maintenance, and every emotion I have demands to be seen. Drama’s not the side effect—it’s the point.

It’s how I am. Just like I didn’t learn femininity. I didn’t borrow it. I wasn’t impersonating anyone. It was always mine. My body carried it before I had words for what it even meant.

The same men who once called me too feminine—who made sure I felt small, worthless, breakable—never realized that’s exactly why they were drawn to me.

Because in every pose, every lip pucker, every eyebrow arch--
in every flash of a photo,
I embody the feminine energy in me.
Which captured their eye.

Their desire was real. So was their shame. And they took it out on me.

They insult my femininity like it’s a flaw--
but let’s speak facts:
their masculinity just isn’t powerful enough
to hold space for mine.

Sure—let’s blame the boy who showed emotion. The one who wanted to be seen in public with pride,
instead of hidden like a scandal they’re too ashamed to claim.

Used for their fantasies, then dismissed for being real. Because God forbid they be caught
with someone like me. What would that do to their reputation? What would people say?

Gasps.
Whispers.
Please.

As for the women who aren’t kind—I know it’s not always personal. They’ve been taught to attack anything feminine, even in themselves. It’s what the world trained into them.

Still, if I’m not choosing my peace, I’ll give it back if they come for me. If they want to be a bitch, I’ll be a bigger one.

They all call me too much. They make me the problem. The scandal. A controversy in their carefully edited story.

But underneath it all—there’s a heart that still hopes, a guy who still chooses kindness, even when he’s misunderstood.

I always show up with kind intentions. Even when I’ve been bruised. Even when the room is colder than I deserve. I prefer to be soft—but softness isn’t weakness. And I know how to be sharp when I have to be.

A good friend of mine said the other day, “You present yourself online as a diva...but honestly… you’re a sweetheart.”

Which was sweet. Because both are true.

So yes, I’m a diva. I’m also a hug. A listener. A storyteller. A keeper of secrets—believe it or not. A little broken, but healed. Still glittering. And that layered, complicated mix of softness and strength--
that’s an honest version of me.

I guess being feminine as a man has always made people uncomfortable. They tried to twist my light into something laughable. To make my softness feel unsafe. To turn what was born in me into something I should hide.

But that feminine feeling,
that energy—moves through me like instinct.
It’s not something I chose. There’s a power in it that isn’t loud, but it’s undeniable.

It’s in the way I move, the way I feel everything without filter.
The way I can be gentle and commanding in the same breath.

It’s knowing my presence is enough. It’s walking into a room and changing the air, without raising my voice.

It’s the part of me that navigates with emotion—not as a weakness, but as wisdom.
I feel everything—and that’s my power.
Because when you feel that deeply,
you learn to see what others miss.

It’s the way I express emotion without apology.

For me, it lives in the details--
the gloss on my lips,
the way I hold eye contact,
the grace in my posture,
even when I’m under pressure.

It’s emotional precision. Beauty that protects itself. Strength that chooses not to harden.

It leads without force.
It attracts without effort.
It seduces, nurtures, protects, and transforms.

It’s the instinct to hold space--
to protect beauty not because it’s fragile,
but because it’s sacred.

It’s how I carry pain with grace.
How I move through chaos and own it with intention.
How I speak in feeling and glow--
sometimes even when I’m falling apart.

It’s never been about impressing anyone.
It’s about being in alignment with who I really am.

That’s what I love most about myself.
AKA: the Diva.

I’m not for everyone—and those people? Yeah. They’re definitely not for me. I have taste.

People can judge, and that’s okay. I don’t need them to be fabulous.

Though I am strong—and I’ve learned how to carry it with grace, it gets exhausting.

To be observed, judged, reduced, dismissed, and ignored--
never truly seen,
yet constantly rewritten into something I’m not.

Not for what I do—but for who I am.

I don't regret a thing I’ve done. My behavior is meant to be loved—not understood.

And on the same side, I have met some of the best,
and kindest souls that I’ll forever choose in every lifetime to have by my side. Life is better with the right people in it.

They say a queen doesn't have to explain himself—but I do love a dramatic retelling.

If anyone truly understood what I had to go through to get here...they wouldn't question me again.

I didn’t choose to be this way. I just am. And no, I wouldn’t change it. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

It gets heavy knowing that something so natural to me makes others uncomfortable.

Knowing that no matter how kind I am, how soft, how poised, how unbothered—some people will only ever see me as a problem to solve, a scandalous topic to whisper about, or a punchline to swallow.

I’m not angry.
I’m very free, actually.
I show up the only way I know how.
I remain visible.
Because I’ve worked too hard
to be anything less than exactly myself.

Xo,
Paul

Be Sure To Keep Up With All The Sass And Follow My Journey: