The good boy is born when he settles down.
His past is just that, the past.
The urges of his youth, just that, urges.
The subjects of those urges, his conquests.
The good girl is born when she is born.
She dies when she touches a man she hasn’t wed.
Her purity is pumice that is rubbed to dust on the chafing skins of eager men.
Her longings are her cancer, her AIDS, her undoing.
The bad boy doesn’t exist, except in the frivolous tantrums of the bad girl.
He is, in everyday life, the ideal son, the fiercely protective brother, the popular fellow with lots of friends.
The bad boy is a fabrication by bad girls,
trapped in resentment or longing, those witchy emotions.
The bad girl is the cause of all problems
The Fury born from good-girl ashes
The embarrassment and liability-more-than-usual to her family
Forever indulging in whining and grumbling and moaning
Welcome to the world, child.
Two of four are chosen for you,
Two choices remain.
Non-binary is, of course, rewardable by death.