Constantly being torn and pulled in different directions. With both feet being firmly planted in one world, but each arm being pulled in opposite directions, to worlds that I was once a part of.
Close ties are still present in those worlds, and the remnants from each are still within me.
A chameleon, they call me. I can adapt to anything. I know the rules and how to communicate. But the issue is, trying to appease everyone, I leave no one satisfied, including myself.
Wherever I go, the language I speak is not the same. The way that I dress is not the same. The way that I carry myself is not the same. It is as if we speak the same language, but my accent is too heavy. No matter how hard I try to fit, I will still have the stain of personalities past on me.
I am not a chameleon understood by all. I am a mystical creature understood by none.