The colour we choose.

The prettiest pink,

palest blue.

The colours chosen,

for me and you.

Without a say,

no choice in the way

we might dress or behave.

Tell me my story,

carve it in stone.

Like our old friends

the cavemen,

How are they?

Please let me know.

How long did they live,

with their outdated ideals?

We’re boxed up and shipped,

heavy, like bricks

Weighted with worry,

expectations,

both amiss.

Left seeking answers,

‘Just where do we fit?’

Labels,

sewn deep into our seams.

Patterns alike

‘His’ or ‘hers’,

not often ‘theirs’.

Inspected on arrival,

allotted a shelf.

One where we stack nicely,

fit in with the rest.

Just maybe one day,

the masses will say

‘We’re done with this

most prehistoric way,

of categorizing each other

into one or the other’.

No longer

pink or blue.

Instead,

just me and you.