I'm the one who gets cut out of photos, the one who spills the drink at dinner and laughs a little too late at the joke. I say I'm fine the way you say it's nothing not really lying, just not sure enough to tell the truth. Yeah, I'm crooked. Yeah, I'm more than what I've broken. I carry wounds and habits and a name and I'm still learning which ones are mine. Get yourself a steady job. Get a partner who makes sense on paper. Buy a flat somewhere central, somewhere safe. Learn to smile in the right rooms at the right times for the right people. Don't take up too much space. Don't let them see you hesitate. I wasn't built for your display case. I wasn't cut to fit that frame. I've got edges that catch on things, a voice that sometimes shakes. And I don't want to sand that down. I don't want to smooth it out. What you call a flaw I've started calling mine. Maybe I should've changed by now that's what the calendar says, that's what I read in other people's faces at Christmas, at birthdays, in the silence after so, how are things? I measure myself against lives I only see from outside. And I forget, every time, that no one shows the part where they don't know either. Some nights I want to disappear into it just become whatever's easiest, whatever fits. But easy isn't mine. I tried it on once. Didn't recognise the mirror. I'm crooked. And I'm done apologising in for it. I've got edges that catch on things, a life that doesn't line up straight. But this is mine the spilled drink, the late arrival, the shaky voice, the not-quite-right. I used to call all that the problem. Now I just call it my name. I'm crooked … still here. Crooked … still here. Crooked … and still here. I'm crooked … still here. Crooked … still here. Crooked … and still here. I'm crooked … still here. Crooked … still here. Crooked … and still here.
