Unmechanical

My biggest dream in life is to become a master 

at quantum mechanics and particle physics, 

because then I could look at you and say

that I think I’d make a better writer.

I’m telling you this so I can write about telling you later,

forever holding the hope that it would make you 

want to crack my skull open 

and examine each crevice of my brain.

I hold the mechanical pencil like it’s my lifeline.

When the earth continues to spin and my mind shifts uncontrollably,

I hold it closer to my chest, ready to scratch out 

everything that is both me and not me, 

forever preserved in Dollar Tree graphite.

I’ll talk forever about my dreams of unraveling

the systems of my body: starting from every bit of my skin 

to the path of my nerves and blood vessels,

the origins of my muscles, and every little marking on my bones. 

I’d examine the pieces to make sure I’m actually solid

or if I’m a convincing trick of the light 

that defies every rule the universe demands. 

I’d unravel the layers myself and leave them in a pile 

for you to organize, understand, and desperately try to find ways to love. 

You’ll find that the pile is a ghost of the girl you thought you knew.

I told you I liked the rain because it feels romantic, 

but the truth is that it’s the only thing that resembles 

the white noise inside my skull 

when I try to remember when I realized I was different.

I hate the hum of refrigerators 

and the way they sound like they’re terrible at keeping secrets. 

I love the sickly, nauseating feeling of being nervous, 

and the euphoric feelings that come with it being over. 

I’m going on about how I hate birthday parties, golf, 

and people who don’t like reading.

I’m going on how I feel like engineered pieces placed together, 

that oh so desperately, needs recalibration.

And I would let you fix me if it meant feeling whole;

I would let the current of your heartbeat jump into my chest 

until I short circuit for good.

You keep telling me that I’m just as normal as any other machine, 

that my gears are functional.

You tell me I’m a terrible liar because I can’t keep trying 

to find the flaws of what went wrong in the creation of me 

at a chemical level–that no mathematical formula 

will ever fix the irregularities that consume me. 

You laugh when I tell you that I feel like a person

the way a tomato is a fruit.

I don’t think it’s funny, but I laugh anyway,

because I know that you’re right. 

You said you won’t fix me, because I don’t need it.

I disagree. 

I feel my heart stop when I realize that it’s not that you can’t;

it’s that you won’t.

Because in that sea of perfectly wired machines 

that all understand each other, you maintain your normalness. 

You’re normal, perfect, and function as intended.

And you can’t see what’s wrong with me. 

Every other machine out there can; why is it that you’re the exception?

With all the questions and secrets I’ve told you, you owe me this. 

Answer me this, with your pulse against mine and your mind functioning,

Can I be fixed? Did I ever need fixing?

You’ll burst into laughter and heel over in tears

while I await a response, heart beating loud enough 

to disrupt the turning of my gears.

You say that I’m a dream. 

That the more I justify myself, 

and the more I tell you who I am, 

the less of me there is to find.

Oh.

If I can’t pick myself apart at the physical level, 

or analyze myself until the world spins, I can never write. 

I can never tell you about my writing or tell you about myself. 

I’ll think of you fondly, and cherish your words. 

I promise I won’t write to you often, 

even though I’d said I’d make a better writer.