Authentic versions caught on the slip of the tongue,

And as I hum broken syllables caught in a broken lung,
I come off as an oddity within the realm of Normalcy,
Because my struggles to be them, they can never see:

Part of the crowd caught in synergetic buzz from neurons,
That fire properly, but misfire for me, tons
Of times, causing my wording to come off as foreign--
To add to my alienation, they only see my love for men.

I cannot look into the eyes of those who speak to me,
And often times, certain sounds can bring me to my knee,
As I cringe from the heighten screech of decibels so loud,
Or even when I get drained from a giant crowd.

The raw me is covered from the blisters of the costume:
A garment so scratchy, tailored perfectly, so no one can assume
That I am not the same on so many levels:
Neither straight nor neruotypical-- a part of self that never sells.

I am not the cookie-cutout of what a man should be,
And often times I am bound, never free,
From my mind, causing me to be a darkened storm--
But people forget, behind showers, a beautiful day can form.

I am a repetition of days, in order to cope with my scattered thought process
That cause me to freeze, rocking back and forth, until the mess

I am, can reboot, and I’m able to be the friend you knew--
But the fate afterwards is always so cruel:

I become the memory of cognitive dissonance and  my friends frustration,
To never be part of the raw, acrid saturation
Of human nature hidden behind a lock and key,
In the brain, for no one to ever truly see.

And once they witness all that I am when they open my door,
They begin to see how much functionality can be a chore,
Only to never be seen again, when I call out for a hand---
Because no one wants to stray from Normalcy's  island