Soft clothes day. #autism

A brain aches.

But this we know. You and I are different.

We look the same.

And it’s a now you see me, and now you don’t.

Because I am fluent in passing.

This is my great skill. I look like you. I sound like you.

And when I am tired there is an introvert model – on social mode – which  dies inside to flick the switch.

Ridiculously, I walk home quite earnestly desirous of an extra leg sprouting from the top of my head. So that you might see me and know my difference without ingrained assumption.

You tie me in knots with your privilege, because that’s invisible too.

And I long to draw it, that leg. Momentarily, I check my privilege – oozing and sticky as a bag of ripening plums – but who can I offend with such a limb?! No-one. No. I’ll shelter in the bosom of that absurdity.

For each time you tell me it will be alright you deny my struggle.

Alright sounds like hammer.

Which. Pushes. Me. Down.

Alright is a privilege.

Deciding not to get stressed is a privilege.

And just so you know.

Every day is a soft clothes day.

 

 

 

 

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