poem: like you

I don't think you know your luxury, boy-- for the greatest lie
art ever told was to it's men, that they are soft like women.
I tell you now, you are not a woman. What do you think of that?
Does someone have to hold your wine while you take this
in? Did you assume you were too gentle for this world,
too fragile for the work force? Had you always wanted
to wear fishnet stockings too? If I were like you, owning art
with the rest of your sisters with sensitive dicks, I would
probably forget my role as well. If I were like you, my hands
all cut and bleeding with meaning, wary, misunderstood,
and drowned in the sorrow of no one being able to fuck
me as decently as my own hand then, well, I would be
shocked to hear the words: Be a man.
I would probably work al my life to be a vessel for
both sexes, for both sensibilities.
I would probably never be quite satisfied
with the sex of one or the other, as they are both in me.
And I would look at my sisters with sensitive dicks'
famous pieces and works in progress and experimentations
on such and such, and I would sigh, thinking I knew
beauty like no one else knows beauty. If I were like you.