I'm a wearer of glasses chains and head coverings and vivid colors that make your eyes burn if you look too long; a creature that looks at gender, skims a bit off the top, then goes on its merry way to reverse-engineer its own gender from the sample. Woman-adjacent but not a woman, man-adjacent but not a man, eternally painting my own gender lines over the dried residue of the older markings; a walking paradox in all its glory.

I'm the entire genre of hyperpop.

I'm butch.

I'm an alien bedecked in leather and neon, a body that draws the eyes in the throb of electronic music and screeching synths- ethereal, yet somehow grounded in lights and colors. I'll beckon you through the flashing lights and lead you back to a utility closet, wink, hand you a screwdriver, then tell you to slip up to the sound system and dismantle the speakers.

I'm a woman in the same way that a hammer is a woman- a masculine femininity that gets the job done with care and practicality, a utility belt made of clean leather and carabiners, a backpack with all you'll ever need in it.

I'm whatever makes people question the validity of their gender boxes.