These Flowers

 

These flowers are the tears

an autistic woman cries

when no one knows just who she is

and there’s no alibi.


Drinking warm tea, by the wayside,

counting stars, by the wayside,

crying hope to see the daylight

as she struggles so, inside.


Femininity in patterns,

her feelings run like blood

and strong enough to be a poison

if in her brain, they flood.


People’s expectations

weigh down upon her soul,

breaking time and taking…

from her essence, from her flow.


Fragmented like blown then shattered glass

colours, all in pieces.

She folds, like an accordion,

with whispers between the creases.


folding and lengthening, again and again,

pressing keys to hum a tune,

her hands reach out, like a young mother’s touch

then pull in, like the moon.


Mysterious and loving

like a sensitive

but temperamental

kitty cat

underappreciated

for all it’s worth

taken advantage of

in that.


Oh, can she survive

to reveal her true,

break out from a veil

of darkened blue,

and share from sister to sister

and heal from every blister,

from nettles that stung

sewing magic sweaters?

Instead, she can pick heather.


The mind of what we call autism,

it is so unique,

and if the light is seen

amid the shadows dark and bleak

that are brought forth by life upon

a system, counterclockwise to

the way we think,

but she won’t shrink

or hide

or be pushed to the brink…


The woman, who feels so lonely,

will find within her right

to be understood

along with the man,

for she’s the other half

of the autie light.


And though she may not show it

in the same way as he,

she does glow it.


If one would look with open eyes

beyond the disguise

she’s been pushed to make,

she’s anything but fake.

She is pure and true.

Flowers from her tears

will not die, but bloom.


2013


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