soft like the moss growing on a warm day
between hard brick and asphalt -
we are still left to pave more of this ****,
what was written in a bible over broken ribs,
with an image of us cooking them in an apron.
we are taught to grow softly and tacitly,
not to make a scene or blow fuses in outage,
a complex dance of stereotypes and structure,
boxing up traits of passivity and ruthless nurturance.
we only know what we've been taught -
pinning gentle arms across tense virility,
to thank them for protection and armour -
which has only caused confusion and dissonance.
i craft my words wisely here, hiss for answers -
because anything more would make me too much,
they try to box me up, but never find one big enough.
our femininity does not equal vacancy,
empathy or vigour, neither gender-specific -
but i sometimes think we got different tools,
a baby doll, a kitchen set, i've learned to care
because i had no other option but to.
i've been wearing pants, paying the bills,
and still making time for dinner.
i still feel none the wiser -
sometimes i wish i was just handed a puzzle,
but we'd still have to thank them for the opportunity.