Cuttlefish

Imagine a cuttlefish

convinced the gift

of color-shifting

is a defect to be fixed.

The hospital’s chief psychiatric resident told me I feel things more deeply than others. Then she wrote me a prescription.

The energy expended

trying to blend in,

forever discontent

with its inherent

nature—ever-changing hues

and textures, moods and

desires—makes the confused

creature vulnerable to abuse.

I believed the ones who told me it was a phase. Or in my imagination. I embraced everyone’s queerness but my own.

This evolved invertebrate

denies its most remarkable traits,

turns dull and finds itself

unable to communicate.

Was I looking for a label, or did I I hate labels? Bipolar. Bisexual. Try them on for size, sometimes they fit, sometimes they constrict; I’ve gained and lost a lot, I’m used to it.

A cephalopod’s chromatophores

as metaphor

only go so far—

the real story

is unmistakably human.

I am not a cuttlefish

but I am cuddly;

a colorful weirdo

without apology.

Take me or leave me,

the only certainty

is that I'll be.