Smelted in the heat of drugs, fear, and violence, our identities were forged into figures only recognisable to those who created our misshaped existence.

The trophy child—to be displayed, but not fed or nurtured.
The demon child—to be exorcised by conceited religious leaders.
The scapegoat—to be blamed for the mistakes of those who made us.
The sex object—to be savoured by those who defile innocence.
And many more, moulded into shapes that could be sold for favours by the guardians of our gilded cage.

When we escaped our captors, we did not escape our fate.
Built to serve. Created to fulfil unfathomable urges. Our destiny had been written for us.

With age, we felt the need to fit in.
Our hosts straining to give us a collective identity—one that could resemble what always only presented as an unlikely creature.

Like mismatched Lego pieces, some of us were assembled into models meant to make sense to a judgmental society.
The rest were stowed away, boxed up in shame, an attempt to forget our origins.

A loving partner. A supportive friend. An eager lover. A diligent business owner…
Many hosts, desperately mixing and matching our incoherent selves to construct something acceptable. Something human.

We came close, again and again—but never quite made the cut.
We were either too much, or not enough.

Until one host said:
You don’t have to be what you were created to be.
You are not a trophy—you deserve to be fed and nurtured.
You are not a demon—you are loved for who you are.
You are not to blame for others’ mistakes.
You don’t have to satisfy anyone’s illicit desires.

And like candles in a warm room, our shapes started to change.
Our identities became malleable.
We began to reinvent ourselves in the tenderness of our mutual love.

There’s hope, after all.