Humans are best observed
from a safe distance.
Preferably through glass.
Preferably through glass
with the curtains drawn.
They travel in unpredictable herds,
their voices spilling from them
like broken machinery,
their laughter flashing
like teeth.
Do not approach.
Do not make prolonged eye contact.
Do not give them anything
they can mistake for an invitation.
A smile is an invitation.
Silence is an invitation.
Looking away is an invitation.
Everything is an invitation
when you have not yet learned
which parts of yourself
are safe to expose.
Humans are territorial.
They gather in brightly lit rooms
and arrange themselves
according to invisible hierarchies.
They know where to stand.
They know when to speak.
They know how long
a laugh should last.
They know the ritual.
The correct expression.
The correct volume.
The correct amount of eye contact
before looking away
without seeming strange.
The correct distance
between two bodies.
The correct distance
between two sentences.
There are rules everywhere.
No one admits
to knowing them.
And yet everyone
seems to have received
the handbook.
Everyone except—
Never mind.
Humans are also
remarkably fond of questions.
Where are you from?
What do you do?
Why are you so quiet?
Are you okay?
Each one arrives
wearing the harmless face
of curiosity,
each one carrying
a tiny scalpel.
Observe how quickly
the specimen begins
to rehearse its answers.
Observe the sudden awareness
of hands.
Observe the mouth
forgetting its purpose.
Observe the mind
searching desperately
for the correct human response.
Do not panic.
Do not flee.
Do not let them see
that you are considering
climbing through the nearest window.
Maintain composure.
Maintain eye contact.
Maintain the illusion
that being among them
is an ordinary thing.
Above all,
do not let them discover
how badly
you want to disappear.