my throat is a piano, but my fingertips are all stringed instruments.  my inner thighs are tribal drums and my eyes are my voice. 

when i cry, my forearms ache along the inside all the way to the ends of my thumbs and forefingers.  have you ever wanted someone so bad your teeth itched?  i have. 

red is male, but not a man like green is.  seven is a woman in heels.  blue is a woman, too, a deaf-mute with thin hands.  eight is male, and nine too.  but two is female.  october tastes like cinammon, december like juniper berries.  summer tastes like salt.  spring tastes like dirt, except for the last part of may, which doesn't taste like anything but feels like the stuffing inside teddy bears and makes me feel sick.

circles hum and triangles shriek.  squares giggle.

so there you have it.  a starter list of why i can't talk to anyone.