I walk polished corridors, shining in borrowed gloss.
I slip into shadows, carrying colors they never named.
They see a single shape, clean and fixed.
I shift between forms, fluid as breath.
My smile rehearsed, a mask painted soft and still.
My grin is jagged neon, flickering with hunger and heat.
They chart desire in straight lines.
I sketch in spirals, tangled and true.
They call me “average,” they call me “kind.”
I call myself radiant, unbroken, unashamed.
They frame my body as border and limit. Rigid and square.
I wear it as canvas, unruled and alive. Flowing and layered.
The frame holds me steady, trimmed to fit the wall.
But outside the frame I sprawl, glowing wild and whole.
They ask for one answer, one name. My label.
I am a chorus, a constellation of selves. Everchanging, unique, and whole.