Mad Hatter

The day I was born, society handed me a hat.
I carried it around in my back pocket until I was unsure of who I was.
Then one day I put it on.
I wore their hat for years, conforming to the idea that I had to be anything but real.

It slowly started coming apart at the seams.
Stitch by stitch.
I panicked.
I had grown attached to their dull, gray hat.
But this was my chance to make it my own.

I took a yellow spool of thread and a needle to it.
I sewed a silhouette of a willow tree onto it.
I sewed my name on it too.
And slowly over time it has become less of their's,
and more of mine.

Some day I'll have full custody.