Who am I? I am not my father’s daughter yet I am not my mother’s son. I am not the blood that binds me to my grandmother nor am I the tears that connect me to my siblings. I am not the looking glass that sees my future or the ripped papers that tell a story of my past. I am not the body seen in the mirror but I am not quite sure of the body that is mine. I am not dark enough to be my father’s daughter. I am not light enough to be my mother’s son. My name is not my own. My mind was forged from tungsten. My heart was crafted from glass. 

My roots are severed, I am a leaf without a tree to cling to. There are bushes around that provide some support but they can’t hide the fact that every other leaf around me seems to have some type of strong stable tree to hold them, and I am falling in the wind. I used to have branches but they were poisonous. I used to have branches but I sawed them off to save myself. I used to have branches but now I have my heart. My roots are severed, I am a mind without a body. My understanding of what my tree was is not nearly enough to quench the thirst I have to know more. Maybe if I could find my tree I could find myself. Maybe if I could understand why my tree is the way it is I could understand why my heart was crafted from glass and not tungsten as my mind is. Maybe. Maybe it would make sense. Maybe it never will. Maybe I will find my identity. Maybe I will forever be a leaf without a tree to cling to- a mind without a body.

Reflecting on my past is painful but thinking about my future also hurts. I am in a constant state of wondering-who am I-what am I? Looking back on my childhood with fondness and disdain because while my innocence was ignorance, it was peace. The days where my worst problem was a discolored crayon are the days I long for. Now the issue of color is my skin instead of a crayon and it is not the wrapper that is mislabeled, but my body. Now instead of fighting with my classmates over who leads the lunchline, I fight with my peers about supremacy and human rights, it's horrifying. Then I must deal with the others and their respective opinions about who I am and who I should be. There are those who try in vain to convince me I am what I am not. There are those who try in vain to persuade me that it is not worth the time to think about what I am, who I am. There are those who insist that they understand my identity and I must blindly follow. Funny, my identity seems to be known by everyone save for myself. I’ve been told self expression is overrated, but without self expression what stops us from becoming one mindless society? Identity and self expression are linked, our identity fuels our expression and our expression backs up the stability we gain in having an identity. Identity is such a fascinating concept for my mind to tangle with. Where do we get our identity? Is it given to us from our roots? Is it blessed unto us from gods who sit upon clouds in the sky? Is it something that must be found for ourselves? Identity, the word stumbles out of my mouth as if it knows it doesn't belong there. Identity, such a prized but haunted word. 

Does Hestia watch from Olympus as leaves flutter in the wind, terrified, alone, searching desperately for some remainder of tree to grasp? Did Hephaestus himself forge my mind from fire while Oizys created my heart with tears in her eyes. Was it Cadmus who gave me the gift and curse of words, allowing me to create pieces of art that are written in ink taken from the rivers Styx, Lethe, Archeron, Phlegethon, and Cocytus. Is it Hermaphroditus who guides me as I struggle with myself, desperate to show me that I am not abnormal or misguided?  Is Hekate the one who reveals the peace in the desolate, the darkness that I find beautiful comfort in? Perhaps Erebus takes pride in being the one to wrap me in a smothering embrace. 

Alas, as much as I may fear who I am or who I may be, the darkest corners of myself will forever come together with the parts that are easy to adore. The broken pieces of glass that wish to gaze longingly at my future dance with the ripped pieces of paper that spend hours recalling stories of my past, neither one willing to let go of what they hold onto. I am not another chapter. I am a different character in a different story. I am a rose without roots. I am the pain but I am also the rain that comes to wash away the sorrow. I am the sun and the moon. I am ice that holds hands with hellfire, the separate parts of myself in love with each other no matter how difficult it may be. I am a rose without the need for roots. I am finished complying with the expectations that are given to me. I would rather be a leaf drifting aimlessly in the wind than a leaf tied to a tree where we share nothing but roots. Do not try to write me into a story where I do not belong. Do not try to label me if it does not fit with who I am. Do not give me a name that is not my own. I will write my own story. I will create my own label. I will find my own name. My mind was forged from tungsten. My heart was crafted from glass.