The Human Way

A poem about my struggles in socializing and connecting

         I always know what I’m supposed to want:
The magnetic attraction of conversational repetition with the distraction of intermissions
         like the sayings aren’t all copy and paste.
I love the intimate human connection and creation replete with infinite repetition,
but unfolding my pleading for that evolved addiction always ends in hating the insincere invitations.
         If I don’t do it all right, they’ll say to me all day:
                   “Focus focus focus on your hocus pocus focus!”

         They never know what I truly want.
They choreographically repeat that my personality is geographically unique without the “illogical” social conditioning
         like I’m not also a copy and paste.
50/50 human genes make up my dialogue seeking dopamine thinking repetition is hollow and uninteresting,
but all I want is novelty with a little bit of relentless absurdity.
         But if I simply do my mind all right, they’ll say to me all day:
                   “Just stop asking questions and I’ll give you an A!”

         I never know what I’m supposed to know.
If my natural tone is “argumentative” I should be a natural essayist in her natural habitat
         but apparently it isn’t copy and paste.
They tell me I’m a natural inventive and it feels like an unnatural incentive to sabotage my ineffective intestines,
but they won’t even mention my two natural average eyes or how they’re brown like everybody else’s.
         If they keep their lips zipped, they’ll say it with their face:
                   “You’re not applying, adapting, assimilating into the natural human way!”

         I never know what they want.
It’s always that forensic intention in their two or more eyes talking about my behavioral correction
         like they couldn’t connect with me, so they had to copy and paste.
Empathy feels like I’m doing it wrong when they look at me with pity like I’m unwell,
and I’m so afraid they’ll say this package deal of me is ruined when we’re both unheld.
         If I keep my lips zipped, they’ll turn their heads away:
                   “Who’s that? I don’t care to know her name.”