I find myself lacking the ability to find elation
in the parts of my brain that give me satisfaction.
In the parts of the world that are supposed to bring me
whatever the opposite of misery is.
the same way you lack the ability to find brushing your teeth in the morning
anything but tedious.
Because my brain is too big.
Your world is too small, mine consumes all that lives.
As if I was born to vegetate my own existence
and pick the pieces of my brain that hold fascination.
I care less about what you think.
if only I could step out of myself to stop and jot on
my eccentric behavior
the way I express myself even when I eat.
my supernatural way of thinking
and how that coils its way into my connections
with people who are only self-aware when the situation is far from the person
who is mindful of.
Would my analyzation of my core and the outsiders of this world
make me neurodivergent?
Would I be accepted into society because I need therapy?
Would it make me less human if I declined help from another one?
Of course let the person who is qualified on reading others
like a book read me like I'm just page.
Grasp on to the things I can't just understand yet.
Help me understand myself even if you are not me.
It all sounds vague.
let the therapist teach me how to be self-aware and learn a new ability
to not panic as much
the same thing we all care about in the minds of the animals that we eat.
I am not a pig.
I doubt I'm even human at all except the parts of my existence.
I can't even tell you what the world is
but I can definitely tell you what comes from it
and how it rebirthed me.