Another encounter with the round hole.
Left with raw edges and splintered nerves
Smoothed inexpertly with love

… and fear.
Because there is no escaping the expectation:
That somehow I will make my beautiful square shaped peg
Fit into a one-size-fits-nobody space in the world;

That I can create, with no skills and no support,
A happy little peg whose individuality is hidden away
Inside an appealing and unobtrusive package,
Indistinguishable from everyone else’s;

That I even WANT to.

Stumbling across a video of an artist
Who chips and scrapes and sands and smoothes,
Transforming a raw template into a masterpiece:
Giving form to the vision of what it could be.
A picture of perfected potential.

Drowning in my own tears
Because that’s what I’ve been trying to do.
But I’m no artist.
My clumsy fumbling with inadequate tools
Is taking. Too. Long.
No time lapsed technology speeding up the process
And editing out the rough spots.
No skipping the learning process

And the round hole still looms.
While the world brandishes its hammer
And screams ‘why can’t you just be normal?’
‘Why won’t you fit?’
As though the shape of the peg is somehow a choice
A decision that was made
A line in the sand, drawn in pain:
‘I will not fit!’

Give me a hammer of my own
Let me show them how it’s done
When you can’t change the peg.
I will shred that round hole
Leave it as ragged and wounded as it would leave my peg
While I scream ‘why can’t YOU be more flexible?’

Is it too much to ask?
That we could have a system that embraces every shape?
Like those toys from childhood;
Stars and circles , squares and ovals,
Triangles and hearts. Bright and unchipped,
With a corresponding hole
To slip painlessly through.

Why can’t my peg just be my peg?
Or at the very least,
Why can’t it be shaped gently, lovingly moulded
In its own time
Until it finds a place where it CAN fit?
Instead of beaten with that hammer
Until it has no choice, but to align…

…or break.

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