your land, my land


processes and procedures









In your interrogations

Your harsh light

I wilt

My soft places and shadows




I want to withdraw

To hide


In shadows

I can speak

My voice soars

Movement flows


Wild flowers grow

In my soft places



Gentle rain

Soothes my vocal chords

So I can sing

Flowers are spoken

Tumble out


In your light

I become dry and hard


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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