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
out to see the daylight
as
she struggles so, inside
Femininity
in patterns
her
feelings heat her blood
and
strong enough to be a poison
if
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 mothers’ 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 they call autism
it
is so unique
and
if the light is seen
amongst
the shadows dark and bleak
That
are brought forth by life upon
a
system, counter clockwise 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 Aspie light
And
though she may not show it
in
the same way as
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
for
our lives are not doomed
So
We’ll
open up strong
and
we’ll open up proud
Autistic
women
Speak;
aloud
