Erasable Lines
A girl with butch hair
tattoos on her arms
and a ring in her nostril
rides up on a Harley
and enters the dive.
She orders a scotch
on the rocks
with some wings.
The men glance her way.
“Sexy,” say some
“Dyke,” say the others.
Down the road from this dive
in a tiny motel
a man sits alone
with holding a pill bottle.
His girl left a note
said it wasn’t working out.
She needed a real man;
one with a pair.
He considers it now.
Killing himself.
This isn’t the first girl
repelled by his weakness.
It couldn’t be them.
It must always be him.
Never good enough.
Strong enough.
Man enough.
We carry these ideals
that men should be men
and women... women.
But what do these images
actually mean?
Why can’t a girl
be brilliant and sexy?
With ratchet piercings
and a passion for beer?
Why can’t a man
be gentle and loving?
Void of a spirit
that searches for fights?
Is it possible beauty
is never skin deep?
If I could change the world
I’d break down these walls
saying girls can’t be boys
or boys can’t be girls.
I’d transform the hearts
and minds of the people
that force gender barriers
on innocent youth.
People need to know
your gender means nothing.
It does not determine
how far you can go.
Your life is your own.
Take it, baby,
make it.
And screw all the lines
that force you to stay
on your pink or blue side.
You are sexy
and strong.
So pick your own way.