How can a box on a page be so heavy?
If I tell you my race, creed, or gender,
it doesn’t mean you know me.

When I pack up my identity,
those are some of the lightest elements I carry.
Although, I know it may not be the same for everybody.

I ask myself if the following concerns only me:
where are the boxes for things that can’t be seen?
Grief, trauma, isolation, or even kinks. Endless things.

We still don’t have boxes for these.
So, I carry them in my pockets
and hide them in my sleeves.
Sometimes, it feels like they’re drowning me.
If I unpacked those boxes in daylight for everyone to see,
would people treat me differently?

I wonder how many of us hold on to these invisible things,
and how the world might change if we set these parts of ourselves free.

Isn’t it impossible to have a box for everything?
How can we fit the holes and wholes of ourselves into square shaped things?
How do we choose if it’s a box for the page of one to hide in the sleeve?