Plight of the Ingenue

A brief sketch of the frustration I often feel; highly exaggerated.

My father and my mother, O,
They little could predict
When they set out to conceive me, that
A female they had picked.
The chromosomes performed their work
With speed akin to light,
As they sealed my fate forever with
The sex of lesser might.

As a child, I embraced my sex
And carried it with pride,
But as I grew to womanhood,
I wanted it denied.
Although I tried to act as if
It mattered not at all,
In truth, the difference taunted me
And threatened my downfall.

Cursed be these supple breasts,
These silken locks of hair,
These midnight black eyelashes, and
This countenance so fair.
I own it not; it is not mine!
I'd rather be an ugly brute,
For then I might control my fate,
And would no more remain a mute.

Alas, I cannot move the stars,
And so I must, until life's end,
Assume the weaker role of 'she',
Although it may but be pretend.