Neurodivergence

Looking into my own eyes in the mirror,

I can see behind my corneas

into my wiring.

Processing my thoughts and emotions

onto floppy disks

in formats

no other mind can read.

Sorting and organizing my mind

into perfect sense,

yet to others,

just a jumbled mess.

I appear as if a mold of clay,

for them to manipulate and mold.

I am working on my temple from the inside,

painting frescoes on the surfaces of my brain.

When I find the breath to speak,

my words slip like Shakespearean prose,

in a modern world where my speech seems too unknown.