Butches who call themselves "average" or "unremarkable" or "unnoticable" like any femme they meet doesn't clock them from 100 yards away. Like we don't catch your hands in your pockets and the way you hold the door for the mom with two kids behind you. Like we don't hear the gentleness in your voice when you call us "miss" or "ma'am". Like we don't notice the way you're vaguely lost or overwhelmed in all the girly girl spaces you get sent shopping, or your grateful smile when we offer to help. Like we don't see your hair: unfussy, practical, and neat, and imagine tangling our fingers in it. Like we don't see the way your cheeks lift as you smile under your mask (so conscientious of others) and daydream about scattering you with kisses. Even when you think you're plain, darling, we see you and adore you.
