Her weary eyes, skin torn at the cuticle
Feet aching yet marching still
Cotton on the heir’s back
Canvas on the feet of the dutchess
Triple the hours, double the dough

His crimson cheeks, toes purple with pride
Not a single tear, nor a single fear
No fuel for his ego
No warmth for his heart
Just a lonely street corner

Their tear-stained dress, his voice, her choice
Deep in their skin do they confess
If God was real, he'd want perfect
God wouldn't make them a sin
A “he” or “she” is not needed

The silent voice of forgotten
Too afraid to speak, startled still
Too afraid to be saved
Gone but never forgotten
A son or daughter, broken

A wedding, thank this “God”
Where men can act as such
And women use their powder
But genders may stay pure
It is a sin, after all

A young girl watching the news
Filled with hate, this world turns
She is coming of age, is she not?
She understands their struggle
And ready she is to stand up

For she has kids to feed
For he just needs a meal
For they want to be real
For they were never heard
For they wed their own
She understands. She accepts.

She is ready.