Everything I own is gender neutral

Everything I own is gender neutral—
from the tender, the slender,
the fluffy pink ribboned cutesies
to the brutal.

From my dogs to the table,
my doors to the cable,
my chairs to the cradle
in which I lay as a child.

My name, derived from the goddess of Earth—
while God, they say, is male.
So what does that make me?
A child?
One of women, maybe—
something yet to be defined.

A bit of soil,
glued together
by self-adhesive labels
stuck on messy me
saying:
fragile
and
this side up.

“It’s a girl,” they decided,
with too many fingers, they added
sticky stuff embedded in the mess—
making blue-red-bloody extras,
lost pieces of “female.”

But everything I own is gender neutral—
every damn tie, heel, saw, hammer,
purple, yellow, glitter-glamour,
even coral, for that sake.
Decorated fucking cupcake—
saw chain or bike brake.

The razor I bought in pink.
and he in blue.
Because it felt safe.
Both borrow Occam’s
everytime we need a close shave.

Because it’s us that decide—
not the colours or shapes,
not the parts cut off or put on,
not the breast that may have nursed,
not our army-printed armpit hair
colonizing nipples and inner thighs,
fighting the stretch marks
that were there first.

So shake and break,
and hold upside down.
Let the me you see
be strong and clever—
mixed with pony-braided cuteness
or whatever.

Break all the labels.
See what is left.
Because stealing all the blues
from the pinks,
the head of the Sphinx—
is great.
Fucking.
Theft.