im sorry to say.
i know its awkward & you wish i didnt -
or at least
didnt exist so tiresomly outside the carefuly drawn lines
of all your stereotypes .
im suposed to lurk in the corner
to tell you how much change you just dropped on the floor
& that the 19th of february 1914 was a monday .
that would be mildly interesting
(curiositys should always be interesting
for five minutes at least
or whats the point of them ?)
behind the cardboard cutout that smiles guilelesly
an eternal child so charmingly grateful
for neurotypical acseptanse
thers somone else.
& actualy made of flesh & bone
- thers me .
& caring about me is sudenly not as simple
as putting change you can do without in a donation tin .
you hav to meet me .
ill confuse you often
(like you confuse me, by the way ) .
im not hear to make you feel good .
couldnt prepare you for all the things i dont know
& all the things i know
that you wil never understand .
im sure you dont know -
motion makes me sleepy .
the taste of spices has a color .
when i could here,
loud sound was a brick wall that colapsed
on top of me .
when i say
in a crowd
my mind feels lik a curled hedgehog
& facing the world with spines of defensive incomprehension
im sure you dont know what i mean .
but the dictionary told you that 'retarded'
is a medical term
(developmentaly delayed )
so thats fine .
the dictionary told you
my life never hapened .
you didnt find me in ther
when you looked up Autism
(neurological condition characterized by intelectual disability )
im not a vegan poet
with hair i cut myself
who loves curry & cartoons & spray paint
& has a tattoo on her bak .
somone who's too often sad but loves to laugh
who cooks & draws hearts with wings at the end of storys she writes
& sleeps with a greyhound's head on her shoulder .
im simply Autism .
these perfectly ok ,dictionary aproved insults
dont feel like anything to me ,
this insentient monolith .
i am suposed to be absent
from my own story .
i am periferal .
how dare i insist on my xistanse ?
you alredy wrote the story of Autism
acording to you
& gave me the title role .
what more do i want ?
i want the true story .
the one thats mine .
i want to xplain how inhabiting your world feels
like breathing shards of glass insted of air .
i want to tell without shame
how sunlight bounses off hot metal
in car parks
to stab me lik knives.
how a breeze rakes over my skin like sandpaper
when im upset.
how when i want to tell you all these things
my tongue is made of stone
too slow to catch the stream of pictures
the river of color that turns to a handful of water
flashing & disapearing through my fingers
refusing to be words
for you to here this story
you must forget evrything you think you know
about who & why & what i am .
you must put down your dictionary
(or tear it up & burn it
you must listen with your heart .
so befor i say sorry
sorry im hear
sorry im not cute & smiley but awkwardly articulate ,
sorry i somtimes speak & somtimes cant
sorry you cant figure me out -
i think of the police intepreter who signs to me
"you should be very proud ."
& thers my story .
i write its begining when i steal your stereotype
by being me with evrything ive got .
i choose to not be sorry.
i am proud .
i say thank you
to the intepreter
with an open hand like releasing a bird .
the words i dont say hav wings .