You already know how this goes for me—
you’ve seen it a hundred times.
The second there’s more than two people talking,
my whole world fractures into overlapping lines.
Voices slam into each other,
mouths blur like a broken film reel,
and I’m standing there pretending,
hoping no one notices how little I can actually feel.

You know I can’t follow ten conversations at once.
Hell, I can barely catch one
when the lighting’s wrong
or someone decides to turn their head mid-sentence.
But still—
you drag me into the chaos like I’m built for it,
like I’m not held together by guesswork
and the hope that someone will slow down for thirty seconds.

And when I fall silent,
you look disappointed
like I ruined the night
by being exactly who I warned you I was.
Every time, I tell you the same truth—
I can’t compete with a crowd.
But you only hear it
when it’s too damn loud.

I can’t compete with a crowd,
so stop throwing me in one
and acting shocked when I drown.
I can’t hear your jokes,
your cues,
your cues,
your cues
that you toss like fireworks and expect me to catch.
And when I fall behind,
you act like it’s a personal mismatch.
I told you I don’t function like you,
so why pretend I do?
I can’t compete with a crowd—
and you know that, too.

Do you understand how humiliating it is
to stand in a room full of people
and not catch a single thread of what’s happening?
To watch their faces light up,
their voices climb,
their reactions sync like perfect choreography—
while I’m stuck trying to lipread six dancers
moving in every direction at once?

You force me into places
where I’m already defeated before I walk in the door.
You call it “fun,”
you call it “just a hangout,”
but to me it’s a battlefield
with no armor, no map,
and no way out but silence.

And when I freeze,
when I smile late,
when I nod at the wrong moment—
you give me that look.
That pity-flavored disappointment
you swear you don’t mean
but I feel like a bruise every time.

Stop getting mad at me
for failing tests I never signed up to take.
Stop putting me in crowds
and calling it “letting me be included.”
Inclusion without access
is just another way to isolate someone
in plain sight.

I can’t compete with a crowd,
so stop dragging me into the noise
and asking why I shut down.
I can’t juggle ten voices
all crashing into each other like storms—
and you know damn well
my world doesn’t work in that form.
So when I go quiet,
don’t act confused.
I told you already—
I can’t compete with a crowd.
I was never built for what you’re used to.

I’m not antisocial.
I’m not dramatic.
I’m deaf.
There’s a difference.
And every time you ignore it,
you turn me into the problem
instead of fixing the environment.

Stop expecting me to thrive
in places you wouldn’t last ten seconds
if you had to hear the world like I do.

I can’t hear chaos.
I can’t lipread ten faces.
I can’t track voices
flying like broken birds in a cage.
And I’m tired—
so tired—
of pretending I can.

I can’t compete with a crowd,
so stop forcing me to perform like I’m hearing.
Stop dragging me into rooms
where you know I’ll spend the whole time disappearing.
I can’t decode this noise,
this chaos, this blur—
and I’m done being punished
for what I can’t endure.
I told you who I am.
I told you what I need.
Stop throwing me in crowds—
and calling it “making me feel seen.”

If you wanted me included,
you would’ve listened.
But instead,
you handed me noise
and called it love.

Where You At (Main Version) [feat. Papoose]

Joe