It feels like wearing gloves at a petting zoo

It feels like being a peach in a world of seedless grapes. It feels like carrying a fuzzy rock inside, one that could crack your teeth if you’re not too careful.

It feels like getting off at the wrong subway station and turning around to see that there is no longer an entrance. It feels like giving up, forgetting, and building a new life right then and there.

It feels like learning Portuguese in Japan.

It feels like wearing the wrong size shoes for so long that you hardly notice anymore, except when you get home and take them off, wet blisters in the corridors between your toes.

When I get on my hands and knees it is not because I like it that way. It is to hide the deep wrinkle that splits my forehead, the twin tracks of itchy wetness crawling down my cheeks.

I am explaining to you what it feels like to be out of place. If you could just understand me, then maybe I would understand you and absorb your ease.

You are at home here. I can see it in your friend circle, in the signed film posters pinned to your wall. I can see it in your tax return.

And I know because you’ve told me. Still, I am poking holes in your ease because I want you to understand. I am one metaphor away from infecting you with my distance, that uncrossable line between self and surroundings.

I know where your hand is headed before you do. You are touching my back as I empty my nose into the crusty napkin I have pulled from my backpack, sorry, I get like this sometimes, it’s intense being with someone new. You like that word, intense, and you feel powerful for making me use it.

I thank God that this time the light is off. I won’t have to pretend with my face anymore, only my body.

I am driving around with a friend looking for ice cream at two in the morning. He has a Clark Kent jawline and walks with a bounce, so his heels never hit the ground. In the car, I want to touch him but I am afraid to ask. If I do it without asking, I am afraid I’ll surprise him and we’ll end up in a ditch, all because his shoulder called out to me like a handshake.

I tell myself I will touch him before we reach the stoplight; otherwise, I tell myself, I have zero courage. This trick always works. So I reach out, never looking away from the glowing red circle ahead, and I hold on to his t-shirt, feel his brown hair poking up through the cotton weave.

He does flinch but we do not crash. He glances over at me, making sure it is not a mistake, then he settles into my palm, where he stays until we pull into the convenience store parking lot and seal the moment in the car along with a pocket of unused A/C.

I am drawn to him even though we are so unlike each other, just because he is so unlike anyone else. I cannot think of a single corner of this planet where he would make sense.

I fall asleep on the carpet of his childhood bedroom, then crawl into his bed in the middle of the night. We do not touch because I am shivering under the blanket, while he is sweating on top.

I would rather not wake up now, even though I am already awake. I lie silent against his body for so long, waiting for one of us to do something. But he is asleep and I have already spent my courage.

He looks so small beside me, curled up like a child. I decide he is a plum.

I am a damp morning peach, wrapped in velvet. I am sunset yellow in the summer light, hanging from my vine like a Christmas ornament. I am so soft right now, even I forget my pit.