Oh, let me count the ways:
I cannot shoot a basketball,
I cannot sketch your face,
I don’t kiss pretty girls,
I don’t play petty games,
I won’t ever win a game of Smash Bros,
And I won’t ever drop my masks.
I think I laugh too much,
And I think I smile too large,
I have a coat of dusky scars, from acne not from war,
I have stretch marks, bone spurs, heat rash and
I guess this is rosacea, the bloodrush from my mother’s side,
(And I guess my face is prone to catching fire)
I have never been inside a school bus,
And I have never had a secret, at least not
A secret more than this:

I struggle with
speaking
like I’m
reading
two / of / lines / poetry
of / two / poetry / lines
simultaneous.

/Special/ is the word you’d use
For someone you just can’t quite understand.
But that’s not what I am:
I can’t shoot a basketball and
I think I laugh too much.
Is that so hard to understand?