Babble [autistic poetry]

I wrote this one back on January 20, 1994, when I was 16 and not well.  There were interesting clues that emerged from the deep, toward the surface, even then.  (Spot the undiagnosed, depressed, 16-year-old autistic female.)  🙂

The sun was sad today…you know…how it beats down hard in mid-afternoon…this one–peachish color…
So sad…so normal…so heavenly.
One can dream then…an escape.
Ever do that?  Ever escape?
Yeah, it was never so fun for me.
Should’ve known back in ’79…’84…’92.
My brain shuts down; I lose my train of thought.  I babble.
People change;  I never did.  Yet I did that too fast once.
I learned that once…from one of the few friends I had.
Never got too close.  Couldn’t get hurt that way…especially here.
No one opens up; that’s fine with me.
We all make mistakes.  I feel like I was a mistake.
How could our creators have planned anything like me?
I wouldn’t wish it on very many people.
They don’t quite know what it’s like.
They’ve screwed up their own world; I wallow in mine.
It might not be as safe; but I’m the center of mine.
I’m not in control…never will be.
I know that if I’m flung into the world…long enough…I’ll self-destruct…in the brain.
Know what it’s like?  What goes on up there?
Same thing all the time…can never be cured.
They just don’t understand that.
But that’s OK.
I’ll be OK.
I call my one friend to tell her that I’m OK.
I call her to talk…but what does one say?…What does one do?
What do they talk about….