Sexuality

Underneath pink bath-robes
and lacey undergarments:
are sections of genetics that order a definition.

Pink dresses
with little polka dots,
and a mask:
makes her a lady.
A lady in waiting,
waiting to put on slacks and loafers
because stilettos are just as comfortable as they look.

Curling irons burn her scalp,
she just wants to shave it off:
it's too much work for her.

She wants to un-button her pants,
and watch football.
Drink a beer
even though she's only seventeen.

But she can't.

She has a party to go too,
"dinner to cook" as he would put it.

So many times she just wants to slap him in the face and say
"I hope you know how to hold arsenic".

But she doesn't.
Because ladies don't do that.

So when no one is looking,
she strips down
removing herself from her society,
your society,
our twisted fuck of society.

Turns in the mirror,
removes the nail polish,
the weave,
the dress,
the make-up,
the slip,
the lies,
and eventually
she removes herself from the empty shell of someone she doesn't know.

She's more of a man
than you'll ever be.