Autistic

The lightbulb is flickering and everytime the light changes it feels like the grooves of my mind are dragged under the needle of a record player.

I collect records but they just collect dust because sometimes staying in one place to listen is too much for me because I hear everything but the music. Even the sunlight in the curtains makes a sound like running your fingers over tissue paper.

I wipe my tears on my sleeves because sometimes they burn on my skin like a reminder that I have to name my emotions. They didn’t even want to put a name to why I am the way I am. Sit still, be quiet, calm down. Autism was reserved for Rain Man and scrawny white boys who lived in stereotypes like counting straws and naming types of trains.

Like there aren’t thirty six trains on one track in my mind, trying not to collide. Like I’m not haunted by numbers presenting themselves as the people who gave up on me when I’m counting their skewed expectations.

I’m just going to unplug the fucking lamp because I’d rather be calm in the quiet darkness than burnt out by deafening hum of artificial lighting.