over over

i want to turn my skin off sometimes
& just be a layer of sediment. let the rain
thin me to an earth veil. i have a hard time
writing about being autistic because it's like
describing the color of dusk. sure orange
but blue too & purple & yellow &
a bruise the size of every disappointment.
i am not curious what it would be like
to not be autistic. actually it terrifies me.
is there less sound? less skin? does the sky 
still sometimes strike like a hammer 
in the dark? do you listen to the flies
saying their goodnight prayers? worry about
the texture of grass on a day when everyone
wants you to be happy? every answer i have
ever sought is a bird. when i was small i had
a phase with my sibling of trying to catch a bird.
our father had told us, "if you catch it,
you can keep it." we did not have plans
for how we would care for a dove or a catbird.
still we chased them. got close once or twice.
this is what being autistic feels like in a room
of people who have too many teeth & tongues.
if i could turn off my skin though maybe
i would have some rest. maybe i would close 
my eyes & turn into syrup. thick & sweet.
so often i want to stop spilling over. over roofs
over lips over knees. my words, like ants 
fleeing for safety in the wake of a hill's destruction
flowing over a threshold. i know i am too much
for a lot of windows. screw those windows.
this is my huge giant flower face. this is my
handful of hair. this is my rocket collection.
when i reach the moon i am going to put
my ear to the surface & listen. see if i can catch
the rocks breathing like i know they do. to me
it is a gift to over the over. my body, ringing.
i will never be any smaller. i take my skin off.
terrify the sky. all the birds underneath.
nothing to catch. thousands of beaks right here.