procrustean

You stretched me to fit
or cut off my feet
trying to force me to your
ideal,
which was always
the opposite
of whatever I was

I regenerated less and less
each time

A pound of flesh
taken and
fed to your dogs
in each iteration

At your toll booth, uniforms
were easier to recognize
who you approved of
in advance

They were designed
and stitched by you
reflecting what you wanted
to see
but anyone
could buy one
if they knew it would
get them across
the
bridge

I showed up
in my street clothes,
having lost my uniform,
yet again,
which curiously was
the same outfit you wore
in a larger size

When you recognized
the similarities
you sharpened your knife
and averted your eyes
as others breezed past
in neon yellow hats
that hid their true intentions