I can barely bear to talk to anyone,
so focused am I on my work,
night after night staring down the computer screen,
day after day lost in books,
any information is a chance to get distracted,
any communication is a snap back to the present.

"Are you alright?" I asked.
"Pardon?  You're a bit behind on that one," said the blue-boxed response.
"I know.  I'm behind on everything."

I don't know how long it's been,
for no longer can I measure in hours spent asleep
nor hours spent procrastinating.
Every minute is either reading or not reading,
and I can say for certain only that I have more reading minutes to account for.

"It's fine.  You're fine."
It's never fine.
"I'm sorry. "

I don't know what time it is,
or how the rock in my hand made it across the room.
I run across to the curtained-off closet
and kneel down next to my forgotten projects,
wire and beads echoing past happiness.

"Why are you sorry?" asks the confused message.
"Because I was stupid.  I thought..."
No I didn't
"You're fine."

The room is blurry, fuzzy, shaking,
and I don't want to leave this corner of my closet.
I forgot I was wearing headphones but now
all I can think is the lyrics coming through
and they're not the cheerful kind,
they're the kind that let me cry for once,
at least till I get a grip.

"How was your day?"
It's got to have been days, weeks, months,
and I still avoid contact
"Hello?"
"Fun fact:  about 1% of the world population identifies as asexual."
If I don't respond she'll leave me alone
If I don't respond she'll know something's wrong
"Night."

The adults in the living room
don't bother to keep their voices down,
and I'm the topic of conversation
and they're both wrong.
The memory of the sensation (but not the act) of
stumbling around the yard, desperate for respite,
and of falling in front of my bed and sobbing
without knowing how I got there
is fresh in my mind.

"Maybe we advanced her too fast."
"She's never had an issue before and I don't see why her grade should be so low all of a sudden."

I know that mine is not the worst of situations.
Sleep deprivation and academic stress
are not unique problems,
and the blue message box tells stories from an imperfect existence,
but somehow I can not face my life
and I dwell in the green message box,
and in whatever else I can find to hide in.

"Are you up for a mission?"
I can't see straight, I'm so tired
"What sort of mission?"
"I'll share you the instructions.  I need some made up words."
I'm still at a charity astronomy show.
"As soon as I get home I'll hop on."
It's after 9:00 pm

I've spent nights staring at the message boxes
on my green Pantech's screen,
ready with a shoulder and a slap in the face
when I need a hand myself
because when you can't have help all you can do
to distract from your own trouble
is focus on someone else's.

"It's a cry for help."
"I get it but I can't emotionally connect to it."
"I'm sorry...  I'm getting too involved in this stupid story."
"No!  I'm just emotionally inept."
"I need help and trying to explain emotions to Abby is like talking to a brick wall."
"Sorry... I'll just go to bed now.  Night."

There's a spider on the ceiling
so I have yet another excuse not to sleep
as if I needed one.
I want to be there for everyone so no one will ever have to be there for me,
but of course,
I need something to be there for me.*

"Do you have your history book on you?"
"What chapter, what topic, and what format?"