You’d never be free
under the guise she chose for you.

The one she hand-picked,
crocheted into your body, sewed
into your lips.

You sat down, took your place at the dinner table,
poised, refined-

You interlocked your fingers, smiled, looked them in the eye,

you were a good boy.
It was never up to you.

So of course, when you came of age
and unstitched yourself from her ball of yarn,

Remade yourself as you,
you were an ugly result

of her failures.
Something to be stored at the bottom

of a tin once used to hold cookies.
And there you stayed,

until you were strong enough
to lift up the lid on your own.