Growing up I thought that people were born with their heads tilt because that's how they've always looked at me.
Boxes.
Check one.
Check other.
People don't know. They don't furrow between the layers, like I do.
They don't switch and twitch, and actively make the decisions of which.. which part of me belongs today?Which aspect of my personality will offend the least and blend the most, and work and succeed and bury the lead, like a switchboard of traits, that decide my fate. And I'm always the imposter?
Always lost. Always asking for directions, and people point my way like the scarecrow. Like tornadoes blowing me, whichever way the wind blows.
Dorothy doesn't want to play today. She's prepping for the Step. Just the multiple choices. The boxes are empty, and daring and glaring me to choose one.
Well I'm an expert at boxes. My whole life can fit inside it, and I've got it down to a science.
I can pack my identity all in one hour. Because where there's roots, there's power. And I have them. The roots are thick. But me. I've become soil. My blood runs like water and oil, refusing to stick. My blood flows like the river, every time I face it, I quiver.
All the memories I have, locked away from my past. Saved for when my recollection doesn't last. It all fits in a box, that's carried from door to door. But that's not the kind of box people ask for.
So many cants and cans. I see both worlds so clearly. I jump and dance and spin in between. I flow through it all so freely.
Boxes.
Check all that may apply.
