He sits among the tiny faces
with tumbledown socks and a cherry nose.
that flaps around his ears
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.