Am I a Bitch, or Am I Real?

Am I a bitch,
opening my fingers
to let loyalty and devotion
slip through?

Do I shush the me
that lingers in trepidation
hovering over a panic attack
of instability?

And then welcome the
confidence of desire and ego

And strut in long skirts with mirrors
And spaghetti-straped push-up tank tops?

Walk with lengthy strides
And swishy hips in
Fuck-me boots
And painted lips
And wear eyeliner
Under Vogue librarian glasses?

Or am I real?

If I close my fingers tight
And let loyalty and love
And all my lover's organs
Pool up in my hands --
Held fast,

Will I preserve my peace?
Will I be accepted?
Will I be honored?
Will I last?

Would I be real?

Am I a bitch,
Selfish and singular,
Or am I real?

Or am I both?

Can I be both?
Do I have to be a bitch to be real?

Can I live with my fingers closed
And still be real?