Straight line.

Are you straight?
No. I am crooked.

A messed up ball of very high strung emotions which rule my life. 

Maybe there are more like me? Crazy and stubborn idiots from a bygone era.

An obsolete age where love happened between people, irrespective of age or sex, to grow roots and drop anchors. Where attachment transcended the furor created on the couch, in the chamber of doctors of the mind. I still live in that space where love is a four letter word synonymous to soul.

I am not straight. For there is an armor, slightly askew, around me. An armor created by the good in people around me. You can't see it. Unless you come down to my level of mad.

I find my strength in the comfort of a calming smell. Oh yes! I can damage those roots once a while...and lose the sense of smell. Specific anosmia. Much less heard of than the shape of your orientation. 

Your straight and my straight are different. You walk the straight line. You find your kick in touch. You wear a blank face, which allows you to push your insinuations of me under the carpet of harmless fun and forget about it all.

Well, to each his own. I let you be...you leave me alone.