If there is one thing
I know I am not,
It is human.

I am not human
Because I hate the light,
And the light hates me.

I am not human
Because I am not someone who
Does not get psychopathic thoughts.

I am not human
Because I am not someone who
Does not talk to themselves.

This may be something that
Condemns me to a label,
A pickle bottle with “crazy” written in red sharpie.
But I am not human.

I am not human
Because I don't feel happy or sad
Or anything at all.

I am not human
Because I am not real, and not quite fake,
I'm just a collage of in-betweens.

All around me,
I see this or that
But the “or” is quite neglected.

My personality is the middle child
Ignored in a family of eleven,
Not quite there enough to be,
But not quite gone enough to disappear.

I am not anything or everything
You expected me to be,
But rather nothing
You can see at all.

I am not human,
See,
Nor am I crazy.

I am just myself,
And sometimes even that becomes negated.