She fidgets,
to calm her powder keg mind.
Rubbing the off-shade pink
scar on her arm.
Her head slowly tilts to the left,
as if to move all her thoughts,
to the left side of her brain.
Problems are made into binary solutions
and broken down with logical incision.
The room is a cacophony of
I-Can't-Deal-With-This-sh**,
Get-Me-Out-Of-Here,
I-SWEAR-TO-GOD-IF-HE-SCREAMS-AGAIN.
But this changes little.
The "real" world matters little in the
calculated centimeters between
soft and pale ears.
Gray matter escapes,
into more perfect galaxies
that jealous reality claims are
“fictional”.
She is not the Latin labels,
or 3 to 4 letter acronyms
she has accrued after years
of medical investigation.
She is much more than the syllables
they throw at her,
mistaking a name for a solution.
None of the names seem to fit.
The doctors have found,
it is hard to describe
a universe.