i wish i was a boy.
not because i yearn for a sense of greater masculinity
nor because i despise my figure of femininity.
is it the norms of a patriarchal society
that stir my thoughts and hold my mouth shut?
life is so easy for a boy
as she swoons over the hint of cologne at his collar bones
and the new hairdo in which accentuated his jawline.
eyes met with eyes and lips met with lips
before even inviting her to dinner.
as time passes i grow even more envious- jealous, rather- watching as every homely boy managed to win a trophy.
a trophy in which they put on a dusty, old shelf
and only came to admire it for the few seconds they passed by.
it confused me
i would never neglect such a prized possession
cleaning the trophy as much as i possibly can
and admiring her perennially
with the occasion of my fingers tracing her soft curves.
why must it be so deviant
for a woman like me
to fancy that her eyes would see me too
the way she would
if i was a boy.
