I can do a push-up.
Not the modified, girl kind;
The "boy" ones, with my feet and all.
But this is not a poem about me.

I can drive a car.
Doesn't matter if it's stick or manual,
The highway or at home.
But this is not a poem about me.

I can operate a grill.
I can cook vegetables or meat,
Even clean it all by myself.
But this is not a poem about me.

I can play sports.
I can kick a ball, or throw it.
I'm even faster than a lot of the boys.
But this is not a poem about me.

I am strong.
I am beautiful, too.
I am capable.
Maybe even more capable than you.

Or your son;
Or your dad;
Your great-grandfather, the male cop, the president.

I am strong.
I am beautiful, too.
But not because society says
That my legs are thin enough
And my boobs big enough;
Not because my hair is shiny
Or that my makeup is perfect.
Mostly because they don't say these things,
But more so because I am beautiful in other ways.
Ways that matter.

You can call me a feminist.
Tie me up and say it's because my clothes
Were too provocative,
Deny me a job because I was ever so slightly
"Less-qualified",
Tell me I can't be in charge because I
PMS sometimes,
Or say I'm bad at decision making because
I change my outfits.

There are women everywhere.
Fifty percent of our population, you know.
They feel a lot like I do.

Because this
Is not a poem about me.