Mirror, mirror,
on the wall,
reflecting back a stranger.
They say I'm supposed to be… this,
what they told me I am.
Boxed up,
labeled,
filed away neatly.

But the edges fray.
The corners don't quite fit.
Like wearing someone else's
hand-me-downs,
scratchy and wrong,
against my skin.

I try on different clothes,
different personalities,
trying to find
the one that feels real.
The one that doesn't whisper,
"You're faking it."

Everything feels like a costume,
for a play I never rehearsed for.
Who wrote this script?
And can I please get a rewrite?
Because this version of me?
It just doesn't feel right.