12/6

self portrait w/ my autism

it feels dangerous to write about you
using sound. the way water waves "goodbye."
here is the upstair-neighbor's laughter
knotted in your hair. a siren making a ramp
of your shoulders. you used to be arrow-like
how you shot yourself through crowds 
of shins. telephone wires intercepted 
your fears & turned them into birds.
how often you felt yourself slowly drifting
like a fog receeds back to its ocean nest.
a party in which no one but you has lips.
then another party in which everyone but you
has lips. the texture of socks turning to sand.
cardboard box where you used to believe in god.
taking a walk away from the house 
& counting mail boxes until they become omens.
ceiling tiles wink at you. the secret is
purple & it curls up infant. you live in rooms
like powerpoint slides. i keep promising
to be less cruel. i want to look at you & see
trestles instead of turnstyles. a checkpoint
where i can inspect all the mistakes of the day.
the anograms of shopping lists. my skin 
breathing a sigh of relief to see a blanket
monsterous as me. repeting the phrase
"june bug" until summer arrives. 
you sit alone at a picnic table. your hair
feels long but is as short as it can be.
when you say "sensory" you always mean "sing."

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