Who am I?

A poem.

My identity has become tangled.
I am tripping over who I am.
My actions are not choices,
they are shackles
tying me to a stereotype,
an idea of what I am.
But the reasoning for my actions
is not necessarily the definition.
I am a puppet.

Where are the scissors
to cut the strings?

Photo by Tara Evans on Unsplash

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