Fitting In

I look so goddamn normal
That it ought to relax me
But I still have a wad of chicken wire that is
Bent into crooked cosines
Inside my stomach.

Determining my wrong is like
Playing Where’s Waldo with dust;
It pulled me from day-to-day’s cocoon
Into the dry crackle of
Exception’s heat.

Sunlight begets ray of sunlight
And I wither on the vine;
I still feel as nauseous
As a seat cushion borne
Of a Tilt-a-Whirl.