He sits among the tiny faces

with tumbledown socks and a cherry nose.

He’s autistic,

a word

that flaps around his ears

like crickets

in rooms with yawning walls and stiff chairs.

Today he sits on the blue square

selected by his teacher

and wriggles on it

like a chick emerging from its egg.

His body searches for its edges,

slouching til it hits the safety of another surface;

a desk, a chair, another child,

it matters not to him which one

but the comforting clash

is always stolen

by the shhring of voices

chiming he must



Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction and not my own or my child’s exact experience nor is it to be taken as the experience of any or all autistic people. I’ve been learning from the Autistic Community the damage it does to them to have non-autistic people create fiction or even speak on their behalf about autistic experiences (that means you Sia). But I have also heard that self diagnosed autistics are considered as valid as professionally diagnosed autistics and in the time of learning about my autistic child’s disability I am fairly confident that I am probably autistic and am definitely neurodivergent and so have decided that it *might* be ok to post this poem on my own blog.

Published by sarcasticfringehead

I'm an adult survivor of child abuse who documents therapy; a yellow brick road to hell.

7 thoughts on “Spaces

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