Anomaly

She doesn’t understand me.
She claims I am different,
unlike any of their friends or relatives.
The cracked pot on the shelf.
The black sheep in the field.
The inexplicable picture on the wall.

Shy and introverted,
I had few friends in school.
The smart kid. The lonely kid.
The thinking “outside the box” kid.
Even mother complained
I wasn’t normal like the other girls.
She said her friends told her that.

There must be a right way
and a wrong way to think.
The perfect answer to life’s
questions and problems.
My replies are never
the anticipated response.
“That’s a joke, right?”
“Are you serious?”
“Hmm.”

Despite rejection, disconnected
images and thoughts still rush past,
too rapid and numerous to sort
into “acceptable,” “questionable,”
and “more honesty then they need.
Some details are too poetic to speak.
How distressing I risk disgrace
if I share what my soul knows.