Spctrm

Are you on the spectrum?, they ask.

Well, I am not equipped to answer.

I have been reds

I have been violets

I have been blues

Like flowers.

Mostly though, I feel like the visible spectrum is where you lie

You.

And I am over here

me.

There are days when I recognise

That happiness.

Apricot skies and soft slumber

Peachy orange airs of confidence and ease

Floating your presence above

I see that - I know that.

There are days when I recognise

The red in myself

The fiery anger, suppressed with sand and shame and guilt and ice-cream

A frustration boiling like lava and it grows

And it grows

And it is familiar.

I feel it - I know that.

There are days when I don’t recognise

The envy that shades a colleague

Fighting through a deep green forest of perception

Certain there is blue behind the blurry hale storm clouds.

I see haze - I am in clouds.

In storm.

It is on those days

The days where I don’t recognise

Where I am a spectrum

I hush, I bellow, I rush, I stumble, I secrete, I tell all

I usually know a response is needed

But I am unsure of what paintbrush to use.

Right now I am unsure this metaphor is enough

But here you are

Still reading

And here I am still struggling to read you.

Are you on the spectrum?, they ask.

Well, it depends on the day.

Today I’m ultra-violet.