QUAGMIRE
The whispers, the smirks
The nasty remarks, the pitiful eyes
Questioning my silence
Why don't I smile?
Engage, laugh or even socialize?
Wondering whether it is in my default settings
Being painfully shy, socially inept, deep into an abyss?
Expecting me to be like water
Taking the shape of the pitcher,
Oblivious that I'm all ice
But aren't my surroundings full of vice?
Making it arduous to melt and blend so as to conform to their prejudice,
They ask, why don't I interact too?
Perhaps because you always keep the temperature at thirty two?
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