Refraction.

The Weird Kids' Room.

I'm sat in the room where the weird kids go
When the yelling of the teacher,
The chaos of the students,
The pressure of brilliance,
Become too much.
I'm the one in the corner, with the mistrustful eyes,
Leg quaking, heart racing,
Frightened of your touch.
And the PE teacher who's just passing through
Stares at me like I'm a freak;
Like I'm doing something wrong.
Mrs Teacher- I ponder- what's in your head?
I'd like to ask, but the words
Are stuck in my throat. I hate it,
But you decide to put your own words into
My mouth, like you understand.
Telling me this and that-
You don't speak to anybody else this way.
My needs, my health...
I understand them better than you,
Yet you insist on infantilising me,
My illness, my disability...
I am not less of a person than you:
My decisions are still mine,
My experiences and opinions have meaning,
Just as much as yours.
What you think I want isn't the truth-
I have dreams beyond my social abilities,
And neither anxiety nor depression can drown them.
Those are the two you can discuss-
You shy away from saying 'autism'
Like it's a bad word. In your mind,
It's easier to call me 'weird', or 'odd',
Or to utilise the r-word, which is actually bad,
Although you don't seem to mind that.
No, you don't care about people like me,
Not as we are, at least.
You just care that my autism makes you uncomfortable.
That is the truth: you value neurotypical comfort
Over neurodiverse freedom and rights.