I'm not that type so don't expect me to be.
I don't flirt and tease and laugh because I like you.
(If I did like you, I'd let you know.)
Its only purpose is to keep you from noticing that I'm dissecting your brain,
And when I know what I need to know,
Then we'll talk.
I'm not that type of person;
I'm quiet because I'm listening to the music inside my head.
(It has a mean bass line.)
And I don't need you to help me "open up".
I am a perfectly functional human being
Albeit a bit psychotic, in my darker moments.
Sure, I walk around with my head in the clouds,
And listen to Metallica when I'm doing yoga,
And I like to pretend I'm a rockstar when no one's looking,
And my feet are always blistered from dancing outside.
It only reminds me that I am real,
And my neural pathways are still intact.
I'm not that type.
I'm not sorry for disappointing you,
I'm not sorry for not being who you thought I was.
I'm not sorry for not fitting in.
I'm not sorry for being human.
I'm not sorry for being possessed by this beautiful discord.
Because I'm the antichrist to your heavenly stereotype,
The horns that hold up your halo.
I'm the one your mother warned you about,
The one that's just this right of wrong.
I'm the chaos hiding in your closet, waiting to scare you shitless.
I am every single human, uncomfortable truth.
So I won't mind if you get angry,
And hurt because I didn't live up to your sophisticated expectation.
I won't mind if you beat me down, (or try to)
Because I remembered my armor today.
You can leave a message on my answering machine
The one that roars like a dinosaur, instead of beeping.
I'll be busy practicing my Firefly pose,
Hanging in a precarious balance
And singing along with 'Enter Sandman'
And seeing how long it takes me
To either pass out or forget the words.
(Sometimes the two actually go together.)
I'll be busy running with the coyotes
And finding new ways to fuck up my hair
And contradicting the world with people like me
And reinventing the definition of shock value.
I'll be busy debunking your cynicism
And the labels you like to slap on the 99%.
I'm not sorry for the way I was brought up,
Or the values that keep me grounded.
I'm not sorry for my irreverence in the face of your usurped power,
Or the little things I do to piss you off.
I'm not sorry for the colors in my mind, or my musical hands,
Or even the fucked-up way I speak.
I'm not sorry for a single bit of my existence,
And I'm not ashamed of being your anti-stereotype.