Neither Box

Two little boxes on every page, and a pen that hovered, unsure where to stay. Every form had a row I belonged to, or so the printer assumed. "Ladies and gentlemen," over the speaker, and I'd shrink in the back of the room. So one day I crossed out both options and I wrote my own word in the white — small thing, a pen and a margin, but my hand didn't shake when I write. And the sky didn't fall, the floor didn't give, the world just kept turning, and so did I — I don't fit in either box, and the relief of it could make me cry. There's a path pressed through the grass between, and that's the one that's mine. Not a failure to choose, my love — I just don't fit in either box. A friend started using the new words like it was nothing, no ceremony, no fuss — just slid them in over coffee one Tuesday, and something un-clenched in my chest. I caught myself in a shop window, didn't flinch, didn't look away — just nodded at the person walking toward me, finally, finally okay. And the sky didn't fall, the floor didn't give, the world just kept turning, and so did I — I don't fit in either box, and the relief of it could make me cry. There's a path pressed through the grass between, and that's the one that's mine. Not a failure to choose, my love — I just don't fit in either box. To the kid in the bathroom hallway not sure which door was theirs — there's a whole open field out past the doorways, more room than the forms prepare. You're not too much, you're not missing a piece. You're allowed to just be there. I don't fit in either box, and the relief of it could make me cry. There's a path pressed through the grass between, and that's the one that's mine. Not a failure to choose, my love — I just don't fit in either box. Set the weight down in the grass. Neither box. Free at last.