God, when I was in the womb, you had given me everything.
A pair of eyes, although with astigmatism, chocolate brown and pretty,
A pair of ears for dangly earrings and the sound of wind,
Ten fingers to feel my heartbeat and yours,
A nose to smell my mother’s food and hair,
And a mouth to kiss my child goodnight.

But God, you forgot to give me a blanket, a shield, a layer, a coat of immunity.
These eyes are pained by the rays of sunlight and colors of the rainbow.
These ears can’t distinguish from voices to music to trees rustling. They all sound like a
marching band. Tambourines smashing in my ear.
These fingers are restless. Stimulate me! Stimulate me!
Why can’t you smell that? Why can’t you understand me?
I can’t eat this. This texture.

Please do not call me spoiled or undisciplined.
Trucks are too loud,
The sky is too bright,
People are too unpredictable,
Animals move too quickly.
God, the world never works how I need it to.
And everyone tells me I never work how the world needs to.