Feminine Ideals ( a poem)

You called my name

and I recoiled,
sprung
I touched your face

and tried to touch your heart, to no avail.

School dictates that I try
my best
to finish exams with
flying colors.

I never quite understood
how

colors could fly without wings.

It irks me that
from an early age,
we’re taught to differentiate
between genders.

Blue for boys
and pink for girls.

Who cares!

I happen to enjoy
the lovely combination of
green and yellow,
so I’m told that

I behave too like

soccer balls in a field.

I tried to fold my legs neatly
into carton boxes once,
desperate in my attempt to please him.

The crush got crushed
and I recoiled,
springing back into the natural shape

I was born into.

I could never be
the sweetly chirping nightingale

admired from afar. No,

I am the
common crow, cawing in
indignation

over being forced to wear
skirts and heels as I trip and slide over
my tongue in defense of feminism. 

Minimalists calls for straight lines
but I defend purple

and I defend my goals.

My name means feminine,
but I am so far from the ideal my parents
imagined.

written June 9, 2009

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