Autism
I learned early
that girls are supposed to be soft,
easy to talk to,
pleasant enough.
I was always aware
that something inside me didn’t match.
So I watched them
and practiced becoming something close enough
to pass.
Watch the mouth.
Lift the eyebrows.
Laugh when they laugh
even if the joke lands somewhere
just out of reach.
There is a buzzing in the lights
that nobody else hears.
It is so loud.
My thoughts scatter
like dropped beads on tile.
They say I am polite,
a little weird,
but easy to talk to.
They don’t see how every word is rehearsed
three seconds before it leaves my mouth,
how my chest tightens like a fist
but I pretend it’s fine.
By the time I get home
my smile is heavy
like wet fabric.
I peel it off
with my shoes
at the door.
Sometimes I lie awake
and wonder
if there is a version of me
who moves without thinking,
who laughs without measuring it fist,
who exists
without performing
her own existence.
I am so tired.