tenderdyke:

butch can be hard, harsh, brash, and a hand running through your hair when you’re crying, a kiss on the forehead, making you tea at night because she knows it helps you sleep. butch can be worn-down hands covered in burn marks and cuts and bruises from long days at work, hands that you come home to and rub with scentless moisturizer so that they wont crack at the knuckles. butch can be “here, let me get that for you” when you can’t open something and it can be “god damnit, can you open this for me?” when she can’t, can be covering herself with a blanket so you dont see her crying, can be locking herself in the bathroom when she gets overwhelmed only to return with open arms and a silent nod when you ask if she needs a hug. butch can be vulnerable in a way she didnt think she could be. butch can be anger poorly concealed with a clenched jaw and a pointed glare when someone looks at you the wrong way, a tersely muttered “if that happens again, i can’t promise i won’t punch someone today,” it can be a stare at the man whose eyes linger too long, a pointed nod when the group of straight women do the same. butch can be a firecracker, ready to go, ready to run, ready to take your hand and drag you away when you both know that’s the only way to avoid getting hurt. butch can learn to accept defeat, if only when she’s gotten a little too hurt, too battered, too worn down. butch is tired, she’s exhausted, falling apart at the seams even, but pushing.