This womb is desert bare.
I stand between ancient beliefs and modernity
My femininity eludes me
Thoughts of completeness ricochet the brain,
Thoughts of having to choose.
Once again in history one of our kind has to choose.
The other kind did not.
My predecessors told me so, in fiction, in nonfiction.
I felt no empathy; their kind was not my kind.
Their femininity eluded them, they too chose.

Our kind loathes you, the all-encompassing supreme.
We meet you half-way; you deny our wild instincts.