In this strange, confusing existence I call my life,
my own thoughts are foreign and hide behind enemy lines
mocking me with false grenades and guns without bullets.
They do not want their true nature to be discovered.
To be identified:
abnormal and incomplete.
Missing something vital,
something too fundamental to be detected.
To be wrong.
Wrong like a body decaying in public drinking water or
a murder discovered during a family reunion or
laughter at a funeral.
My own thoughts are strangers
I take out to lunch dressed up like Abercrombie and Fitch models
but my best attempts fail to satisfy the public eye
instead my thoughts appear as repulsively dressed clowns
tastelessly splattered with neon polka dots on black fabric.
The awkward silence slithers from the concrete
up past my shoe and sock into the leg of my shorts.
The silence makes its way under my shirt
leaving a trail of hot sweat along my back.
“Waiter! Waiter! Check, please?”
I want to leave, escape over the hills.
I want to find myself buried underneath the sand of California’s Death Valley National Park.
I leave the restaurant before anyone selects me off the menu
before they eat me for lunch.
They say I am cold, colder than the Arctic Ocean.
They say I am mean. There is something off about me.
I know that there is kindness pulsing like blood in our veins and arteries
traveling through our hearts and bodies.
Is it too late for me to understand what I am missing?
Everyone sits down to eat lunch in their dollhouse world,
but I can’t seem to find my seat.
I wonder if it’s obvious,
if I appear normal.