Does my very existence not fit into your narrow idea of what a human being should be?

That you even hold a belief that my identity should have parameters truly disconcerts me.

First, I feel a reactionary urge to be sorry for not fitting into this tiny little cardboard box you've made for me.

This box you want to close up and push to the back of a dusty shelf.

This is because I'm used to being swept under the rug like a mess you don't want to see but you don't have the time for.

Then, I want to crush it beneath my feet and tear it apart.

But the mother within me caresses your hateful glare with a sorry stare.

Disappointed... worried, I gently pick it up.

With a sad smile, I begin to open it.

Carefully, with the calloused pads of my fingers, I untuck each fold you have created in order for this box to contain my soul.

With each motion, I make sure not to rip it at the seams. That would hurt.

It seems, though, this material has been handled unlovingly to begin with.

Mold has made its way into the corners, and the fibers are fraying at each corner, at every fold.

But I am patient. I will slowly but surely deconstruct each and every hateful box that has been stacked in the musty warehouse of your heart.

I will be here until all unsuspecting souls have escaped their prisons.

I will be here until I die.
But that's okay.

It gives me something to do with my hands.
Plus I enjoy the company of the liberated.

I need their help to clean this place up.