I don’t do social transactions,
a certain awkwardness that echo’s in my bones,
ever nostalgic of all that time,
silence became my most loyal friend,
those years where I had to play pretend.
To commit to exchanges of buoyancy,
agreements of mutual detachment,
lying to ourselves that we get along,
in reality using each other for benefit.
I don’t fit well,
because I don’t know how to use people,
and you, ever the socialite,
because you’d tear into your mothers neck,
if it meant acceptance.
I can’t commit, I default,
call me socially bankrupt if you want,
deprive me of any privilege you so desire,
but please remove me from any obligation,
of forced amicability,
for the sake of pseudo civility.