Poetry

So what would a diagnosis mean for you?

The spectrum runs much deeper than we can see,

maybe we’re on the precipice,

maybe we’ve already reached the bottom.

Dragged through the world, forced to be immersed,

or constantly waiting on the edge, wanting an invitation

but blocking up the letter box.

Time opens up, divides, expands.

The clock ticking provides a distraction,

my body sways in keeping.

Why is yellow such a bright colour?

It rains on my head and splashes in my eyes,

a tidal wave of unpleasant butterflies

and the number three.

All I crave is quiet. pH7.