Boxes

We argue over the boxes they put us in, 

That we put ourselves in.

Labels adorn our body, some proud, some ashamed.

We fight over which are fair, which are offensive.

Should she be labeled that? And why is she labeled that? 

It seems all we can talk about are the boxes that we live in, like listing a prescription.

We neatly stack away parts of ourselves, labelling them so we don't worry over what's inside.

The boxes are stacked up, holding us in its geometry.

And it seems we think we belong in these boxes.

But the corners are sharp, and cant't contain the wondering parts of ourselves. The parts that never considered this could be a home. 

It seems to be that we are all too afraid.

Too afraid to admit that we don't know what box we fit in, 

Too afraid to start writing our identities by hand.

What is it like to be you?

Are you brave enough to admit that you don't know the answer.

That you may never know the answer.

Are you brave enough to finally unpack all your boxes, and face whats inside?