Crouching in tendrils of bright green grass
Two caterpillars set out on a daunting task
Hearts filled with hope to taste the fruit
Which had rendered so many full and moot

They slugged their way out beneath the sun
And laughed and talked of all they'd done
Distracted they never saw the bird coming
It swooped down much too close and sent them running

Once they were sure the bird was lost
They argued their plan and what it could cost
They were both still afraid the bird would come back
And this time that bird would precisely attack

But they knew in their hearts that they came so far
They couldn't turn back on their wishing star
So they hauled for the tree which was just in sight
When the bird swooped in and with all it's might

Bit a chunk from both caterpillars **** end
And with a mighty resurrection of power would send
Both caterpillars catapulting to the tree
Where both could feast and drink fruit mead

In a drunken stupor honey glazed thoughts soar
The caterpillars lost in slumber would snore
And in their sleep their body's tore
To be rebuilt with fine allure

They stretched out their legs, wings unfolded as well
Both stared in awe at the beauty, love spell
They leapt in the air and tested their wings
And rose to the sky to cheerfully sing

Two soaring butterflies dancing with the wind
They looked at each other and victoriously grinned
They had beat the bird and ate all their fruit
And may never had if they left that route

Being perceived as normal is an art.
  My PTSD Atypical brain
is accidentally obvious,
and so I must be practiced and calculated
to stay hidden.

It isn't the cute eccentricities
that give us all mildly embarrassing quirks
that keep me up at night
obsessing over my behavior.
It's the trickle of trauma that seeps out of me
and marinates in with conversations
that should be normal.

It isn't random shoulder shaking sobs
or public screaming matches,
or anything obvious enough
to merit the stares of passerbys.
It's more
a bump in the road,
a single tight knot
in a strand of yarn,
or a piece of eggshell in pancake batter.
Not terrible enough to upset the balance completely,
but your thumb runs over it repeatedly a few times
in annoyance
because you can feel it just enough
to know it shouldn't be there.

It shouldn't be there.

I'm trying to practice
being average.
Practice being quiet when I should,
and learn the pieces of my life
that were traumatic
so I can hide them enough
to get by in a daily vanilla life.

But it's exhausting.