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.