I am deficits, disorders, and abnormalities. Difficulties, restrictions, and limitations. Inabilities, sensitivities, vulnerable. I am kind and considerate, but cold. Accomplished in everything I attempt, but intolerant of imperfection. I am fearless and confident, but anxious. My responses are disproportionate, (I am always too little or too much.) My speech is clear and easy to understand, but too quiet. I'll smile when you make a joke, (if I realize it's a joke at all) but not just because you smile at me. I have no interest in casual friendships but am easily led and manipulated. I'm clever but have no common sense. I eschew conventional gestures, I am atypical, unusual. I'm blunt, (I tell the truth, funny how that's seen as a problem.) Conversation does not come naturally, I'll panic if you don't follow my script. I cannot empathise spontaneously, (what does that even mean?) But I will try and fix things, And if you ask, give you a hug. I am reduced to a list, A diagnosis, a disability. The myriad parts of me dissected, and judged. The labels are all people see. The acronyms stamped on my soul. Incapable of love. Or of empathy. A robot.
The Author
Harri Aburrow-Newman is an English writer, artist and science geek living on the East coast of Yorkshire, in a house filled with books, beasts, bright colors and cacti. They like to hide in their loft and write poetry and queer, urban fantasy novels while looking out at the sea.
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