Gender Like the Wind
One day a little kid came up to me, hit me, and asked,
“Are you a boy or a girl?”
I wanted to sit her down and say “Love, my gender is more fluid than the wind.
It blows gusts every which of way, some directions more than others.
It’s chill fuses through blood cells and creates this amazing shiver, felt by all.
When it begins to rain the unknown, the wind picks up, heavier and more precise.
Grabbing a jacket won’t make you warmer when the sun comes out. Only a bit more wind-whipped.
If it runs warm, remember that it’s still summer and tropicality admires its ways.
Occasionally trees deceivingly frolic with wind and tease their freedom using their dynamic branches.
The real problems errect coldly from the ground, unnatural and solid walls,
Built from foreign materials of condescending purposes;
They stand proudly without support, forgetting that they once were tree-bark blueprints.
The wind aligns its self with sky parallel to this monumental blemish and floats over it, never mentioning its humbled retained section.
So it roams, away from any walls, through it’s obstatistical santuary
free, envied, and without boundaries.”
But insted, I replied “no”.
She applied her own broken logic to every piece of my apperence,
hoping shed distort my imagery
of what gender didn’t look like.
I had forgotton that my chest and hips were as visible as I remembered them.
My eyeliner was thicker than I applied.
My bowtie was tied with years of experience.
But still my answer was no.
“Are you a boy or a girl?”
I wanted to sit her down and say “Love, my gender is more fluid than the wind.
It blows gusts every which of way, some directions more than others.
It’s chill fuses through blood cells and creates this amazing shiver, felt by all.
When it begins to rain the unknown, the wind picks up, heavier and more precise.
Grabbing a jacket won’t make you warmer when the sun comes out. Only a bit more wind-whipped.
If it runs warm, remember that it’s still summer and tropicality admires its ways.
Occasionally trees deceivingly frolic with wind and tease their freedom using their dynamic branches.
The real problems errect coldly from the ground, unnatural and solid walls,
Built from foreign materials of condescending purposes;
They stand proudly without support, forgetting that they once were tree-bark blueprints.
The wind aligns its self with sky parallel to this monumental blemish and floats over it, never mentioning its humbled retained section.
So it roams, away from any walls, through it’s obstatistical santuary
free, envied, and without boundaries.”
But insted, I replied “no”.
She applied her own broken logic to every piece of my apperence,
hoping shed distort my imagery
of what gender didn’t look like.
I had forgotton that my chest and hips were as visible as I remembered them.
My eyeliner was thicker than I applied.
My bowtie was tied with years of experience.
But still my answer was no.