Why men can’t smell of roses

Scent is an attraction.
It pushes and pulls,
Dragging us through its coils
Headfirst like an abrasive bull.

Women’s perfume is abundant.
Flowers galore,
Every different blossoming colour
To creep into each pore.

Men have been denied such sweet bliss.
Walk down the woman’s line of bottles,
Each sporting rainbow creations
Yet an empty row for men making me want to throttle.

Why are flowers for girls?
Why are men’s perfume called “Ice” or “Africa”?
Perhaps the flowers themselves are choosy,
Only wanting the most feminine skin
So not to be called floozy.

Would we care?
How dare men walk up to us smelling of roses,
Instead of acidic or overpowering stenches
They are using whatever takes a fancy to their noses.

Why not for both.
Does the scent I usually crave not work on male skin,
Perhaps instead of segregation we decide that everyone is the same
Everyone bleeds when poked with a pin.
The same skin.
The same red blood.

Scent

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