faces
pressed hard against frosted glass
face shapes, indistinct
bleached of expression
distorted by breath condensed
why choose to suffer like that
frozen to the outside of distorting glass
separated by that pane
division you refuse to submit to?
when every smile is unaware
where there are no windows on the soul
who you are a concrete set
I resonate because
on this side too
there is identity, pulse,
that quiet sense of self
pushing harder into the ice
believe some locks
can be unpicked
In 1995 I was diagnosed with Aspergers syndrome, sometimes known as "High Functioning Autism" (I hate that term as it diminishes individuals that are as bright and beautiful as anyone else, but communicate in a different paradigm). Explaining to someone with whom I had fallen in Love that I had Aspergers, she asked "What is it like?" - I struggled to answer straight away, and in the end wrote this to try to explain. It is imperfect, but I wanted to communicate not only what it is like, but why I deal with it in the way I do.