Lorraine and lesbianism grew out of me. Somewhere there was a deep connection to womanhood, to professional attire, makeup. Am I genderfucking? Lorraine, the woman inside me, exists because notions exist. She is my excuse for pretending. She may as well be the false nose ring, the provoking question, the Catholic worker, the wymyn-loving-wymyn-loving-birkenstocks, and the tube of lipstick. Is she real? I can't tell the difference anymore.
"I am alone and no one understands my pain" -- I seriously felt that any time I asserted my womanhood, I was faking. It was my drag. Yet it was my community (as evidenced by the earlier poems).