In the tangle of life, I once believed, 

Heads cocked from birth, as I perceived. 

Boxes to check: one, then the other, 

Layers deep, like a switchboard’s cover. 

People unaware, in their straightforward view, 

No furrowed brows, like I often knew. 

Switching and twitching, decisions to make, 

Which part today, for society’s sake? 

Blend and succeed, bury the lead, 

Imposter Syndrome, lost in the thread. 

Asking for directions, like the scarecrow I sway, 

Tornadoes blow, no set path to stay. 

Dorothy, tired, stares at the box, so bare, 

Glaring and daring, a choice to declare. 

An expert on boxes, swift in my task, 

Packing my identity, no need to unmask. 

Roots give power, but I am topsoil light, 

Water and oil, refusing to unite. 

The spark that lit, the fire inside, 

Packed and moved, a constant tide. 

Lines in the sand, so many to see, 

Cans and can’ts, in a world that cannot agree. 

Both worlds are clear, as I dance in between, 

Shamed for existing, yet never seen.