Gender was a stupid creation

Who decided just because I have, well...
Certain bits
That it means I should wear a skirt?
Or a dress?
I mean what does it matter?
Why aren’t we just all the same?
I don’t want to choose
Because getting it wrong
Means doing again...

In my hands I hold a pen, not a needle, but a pen.
Oh how I wish it were the needle.
Both hold the expression to that which I hold dearly.
For it's not just a pen or a needle that I hold;
It is me!

for now, i am only focused on
recognizing the girl in the mirror
she sometimes looks like a boy
her rotting skin draped in doll clothes.

sometimes her body expresses itself
gagging and shaking from fear
seizing like it forgot stillness.

other times her body expresses this massive monster thing
it's deep and thick and blue
on some nights she tells herself its the ocean
over and over again she tells herself
that he is the ocean.

she wanted to tell them about the men.
the poets and songwriters and fashion bloggers and computer programmers
the hours and days stolen from her
trying to find some meaning within their violence

the men that had ****** her everywhere.
the men that had touched parts of her that belonged to nobody.
pulling slapping tugging choking bruising scratching
owning pieces of her with more aptitude than she ever could.

in sickness and in health
she could only recreate the memory
of their throbbing, drooling penises
pulsing with the aggravation of power

in her bed she shivers and gags
she's come to realize that this is how men love.

on other nights she is the ocean
deep and embodying
open and consuming
feminine and destructive

Honestly, I’m really tired of this conversation
and worn down from this constant repetition

I’m just here -
Not a girl, not a boy
Tired of being treated
Like some type of toy

Please stop -
Asking me
How to make it work
Because
I don’t know.

I don’t t ever ******* know.

A Pursuit of Freedom

A pursuit of freedom,
based on blurring lines
of gender identity
and other things to follow.
The profane is now the norm,
and we advance, we advance,
celebrating the frog
in its slow boil death,
as we seek to destroy
any who warn against it.

Where, will it end?

James E. Roethlein copyright 2021