There are some truths too quiet to say out loud. They live beneath the surface, dressed in competence and success, hidden behind the applause, the promotions, the practiced smile. This poem speaks to one of those truths—the relentless, invisible weight of never feeling good enough. Not because of failure, but in spite of achievement. It's written without the word I , but make no mistake—it’s personal. For anyone who’s ever worn the shape the world asked for and still felt like an imposter beneath it, Chameleon Skin is for you. Chameleon Skin Not for lack of effort, nor talent braided into bone. The hands did what was asked. The voice bent in every key. Smiles were painted precise. Mirrors practiced them well. In boardrooms, applause. At home, a quiet too vast for words. Always the first in, last to leave. Deadlines dissolved under fingertips worn thin. Still— not enough. A name on plaques, a corner office view, the slow nod of respect that never pierced the shell. Each rung climb...

It was only yesterday that I discovered a group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope, and I had to put that in a poem. So I started thinking about all the beautiful, strange, and poetic names we give to gatherings of animals—murders, parliaments, flamboyances—and how each one carries a kind of quiet unity. This poem is what came out of that wondering, and maybe a little loneliness too.  The Ones Who Gather A kaleidoscope of butterflies, turning air into stained glass, wings brushing wings in a hush of color— they move as one, a prayer held aloft by sunlight. A murder of crows circles the edge of dusk, black-threaded thoughts sewn into the hem of sky. Even in omen, they arrive together. A parliament of owls sits in the cathedral of trees, silent but listening, wisdom not as one voice but many held in counsel. A pod of dolphins— spindrift and shimmer, laughing through salt and wave, mapping the world with echoes answered. A mischief of rats in the alley’s forgotten script, bol...