Its a FACE, not a MASK

Growing up... I thought people were born with their heads cocked because that’s how they’ve always look 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 in 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 of the most and work and succeed and bury to leave like a switchboard of traits that will decided my fate and I am always an imposter.

Always lost, always asking for directions and people point my way like a scarecrow, like tornados blowing me which ever way the wind blows. Well Dorothy does not want to play today. She is prep'n for the SAT, just the scantron, the box is empty and glaring and daring me to choose one.



Well I am an expert at boxes, my whole life can fit inside it and I got it down to a science. I can pack my entire identity in an hour, cause where there is roots there is power, but I am all topsoil.


My blood runs like water and oil refusing to stick,

my dad’s old books read in secret nooks that camera that locks all my memories in a flash saved on my recollection does it last,

that lighter that sparked that fire, all fit in a box ready to be carried from door to door,

but that’s not the kind of box people ever ask for, so many lines in the sand so many cans of can't, I see both worlds so clearly

and I skip and jump and dance and fall between never seen.


I belong in the spaces in between

check all the that apply

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