Miss Folded

What does it cost
to fit in a box—folded,
cut into parts,
stacked.

Just to meet expectations.

Why?

I don’t get much out of it.

The weight of the pile
grinds my joints, hides my truth.

Stiff, in a way
that won’t let me move—
not freely,
not as myself.

But did I choose this?
Stockpiled myself into a heap
before I even started?

A deck of cards, a life pressed—
a neat, forgettable pile.
Just to fit the box I came in.

Top card pulled, ever-shifting.

But I’m not a stack.
I’m not a pile of borrowed faces.

I’m the full fucking deck.
All the colors—shuffled.
Spread out like a map.

Whole.

Tracing new lines over old ones.

Asking:

What can we discover?
What can we conquer?

Now that I’m here—
Fully.
Completely.

Without apology.