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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