Stranger in a strange land

"You know how when we talk to people, we always need a reason?"
I say in a measly attempt to start a conversation.
"A proper reason, like work or a need-to-talk
You can't just want to, you gotta have some grounds to knock."

My classmate cannot relate.
"I don't think so, we all talk nonsense all the time right?"
A laugh, an agreeable nod, and I go back to minding my own business.

My own business.
My own business is reminding myself, once again, 
that I'm the trespasser on this planet
and everyone else is inhabitant.
Of course he can't relate.

I borrowed a pen today because I forgot my own—
the same one I'm writing this poem with—
and called it social interaction.

I'm crying over nothing in the empty auditorium
where I can't even see half the words I'm writing
not because the light is dim,
but because I am.

Raising my hand in a Hi is social interaction
Exchanging two lines about that presentation due is social interaction
Pretending to crave loneliness is social interaction.

The cripple of my mind spreads to my throat and I cannot speak.
I cannot think and cannot talk 
without feeling desperate, or unwanted, or needy
To you I'm 'reserved' or 'shy' or 'introverted'
'high in emotional intelligence' because I'm satisfied by myself;
But not all the time, you see,

Every day that I step inside the college gates
I wish I could learn how to speak. 
Not yelling on stage but holding conversations
for I hold conversations like they're glass balls
balls are what I curl into while taking a nap
I do not want 
to take up so much space here.

I'm sorry, slam poet who's my tear trigger,
I cannot seem to let myself be the milky way.

Won't somebody arrest me?
I'm trespassing here
trying to drown or pull myself out— I cannot tell—
in piece-of-crap verse like myself.

8th April/ (6/30)/ Does this even count?