Maybe things would be different
if I was allowed to draw on walls,
or feel the grass beneath my feet
instead of frilly socks.

Maybe things would be different
if I was allowed to fall from heights,
and maybe I’d have a backbone
if I wasn’t taught to be so polite.

Maybe things would be different
if I were born a big, strong male.
I could venture into valleys
and set forth upon my trail.

And nobody would question me,
or query where I’d go,
because it’s certain that I’m capable
to steer the boat I row.

But I wasn’t born a big, strong male.
My strength is not so plain—
it’s layered under deep, dark depths
and many dragons slain.

And every time I chart my course,
sure that it’s time to row,
I’m just about to lace my boots
when I’m questioned where I’ll go.

That home seems such a lovely place
that needs no map in hand.
Are you sure that you’ll be safe out there?
Are you sure you don’t need a man?

Just when I am ready
to find my missing piece,
something comes between me
and tells me that I’m weak.

It paints me like a flower
that’s frail and hard to grow.
It tells me things can’t be different,
and home is all I’ll know.

So I go back to my frilly socks
and small duties of my home—
the ones that seemed romantic
until one half was overgrown.

I slip back inside the waterwheel
in a silk dress now stiff as board,
when something whispers from the shadows –
an explorer I’ve ignored:

There’s danger in the white dress
that’s never met the stain.
There’s deception in the beauty
that’s never met its pain.

So, grab your map and lace your boots –
go where others don’t,
you must face the final piece of you
before it turns to stone.