What Seems To Be The Problem?
we sit in round velvet upholstered couches on opposite ends of the dimly lit room the clock is uncommonly silent, the second hand flowing seamlessly with the true glissando of the violin there is a framed photo of flowers on the wall google image search tulips page 2 result number 8 “What seems to be the Problem?” she asks
the problem is that i am not the way they want me to be
the problem is that i need to cover my ears during lion dances or when people are laughing loudly in the car the problem is that i like to pick apart burgers before i eat them because the cacophony of flavours is too discordant the problem is that i get upset when the supermarket plays songs in the wrong key sung by the wrong singer because it tastes like codfish steamed in banana sauce the problem is that i talk to fishes and cats too much and to people too little the problem is that i want to discuss the evolutionary purpose of narwhal tusks and the repercussion of pizzly bears on the biological definition of species instead of asking questions whose answers i already know. (“How was exchange?” “Oh, it was fun. But expensive.”) the problem is that i don’t understand how to tell when they don’t mean what they say and what they really mean the problem is that i can’t touch or be touched without feeling like electric fire is eating me from the inside out the problem is that i don’t know when raised voices are a joke not a threat the problem is that I don’t know
how to be
it makes people stare it makes it inconvenient for them to interact with me it makes them look bad for associating with me
the problem is me
but they won’t let me erase myself