your land, my land

Your

processes and procedures

Your

solutions

 

Exposed

Scrutinised

Observed

Tested

 

In your interrogations

Your harsh light

I wilt

My soft places and shadows

Exposed

Vulnerable

 

I want to withdraw

To hide

 

In shadows

I can speak

My voice soars

Movement flows

 

Wild flowers grow

In my soft places

Humming

 

Gentle rain

Soothes my vocal chords

So I can sing

Flowers are spoken

Tumble out

 

In your light

I become dry and hard

Eventually

I cannot move

I cannot see

Or speak

 

You tear off a small part of my dried skin

Creating an open wound

 

You believe I cannot feel

 

Under a microscope

My intricate maps now dried and distorted

You fix markers

For others to follow

But miss the fossilised patterns of flowers and leaves

 

You see me

Hard and dry

And turn away from my croaked words

 

I hear you

Still talking about solutions

For me

 

IMAGE Photo of a small piece of bark with lichen growing on it, on a white background.

#autism #autistic

 

A poem about difference and pathologising narratives

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