I will watch as my body burns.
It will begin at the toes.
Those lifeless stubby appendages never did me any good.
Then my feet, like dehydrated rubber will turn to dense smoke.
The legs, like inverted candles, like kindling.
I will watch my body burn with pleasure.
I will, with hope, see my stomach drip to the ground, anxiously awaiting exoneration.
I will, with gleeful anticipation, see my arms and chest turn to jelly and fall upon my melted historic shell.
Only then, when this torture chamber is gone, when the bars of this prison cell are ripped open, only then will I be free.
I will, somehow, be free.
I want to watch my body burn, knowing that I am being reborn.
I want to watch my body burn, with the anticipation of my baptism.
I want to watch my body burn, knowing that when the fire goes out I will be free.
I think I will be independent soon.
I think I will type on a stand and bathe and dress myself.
It is a strange thing for a man to say.
Then again, I am a strange man.
I want to have already completed these adolescent steps, but I haven't yet.
Not like most men you've met.
I will knead these latex limbs longingly.
In the quiet hours of the long night, be thankful you can bathe, dress and feed yourself.
I'll see you when the sun comes up.
Birds and all.
I bet I could teach.
I know the most minute signs of misconception.
The eyebrows say it all.
teaching is the most pious profession.
My teacher is the most caring, patient and intelligent person I know.
Teachers avoid recognition.
I don't know why, but they do.
If I were a teacher I would stand in the spotlight.
I would let everyone know of my skillfull artform.
I would rip flyers for lost kittens off light posts and replace them with large pictures of my face.
The caption would read I teach, what do you do?
Being autistic makes relationships confusing.
My means of relating and communicating are so limited.
I wish I could talk on the phone.
I wish I could drive a car.
I wish I could hug someone in a way that comforts me like others all around me do so instinctively.
I wish I could sit next to a close friend or family member and just be.
I think I would baffle Shakespeare.
Descartes would get me though.
I wish there was an autism pause button.
I just want five minutes to call or hug someone I love.
I am in need of new home staff.
Is there anyone out there in the Merrilvile, Indiana area interested?
You will be trained.
I am genuinely hoping to find someone who cares and is a quick learner.
Contact me if youre interested.
It is a part time job.
You must have reliable transportation.
I hate that people doubt me.
Like those misguided ABA therapists, who need 8 out of 10 trials to believe in my abilities.
No behavior occurs in isolation.
Did Moses need to see the Red Sea part 8 out 10 times before saving his people?
Do sprinters wait for 8 out of 10 gunshots before sprinting?
I write most of these poems in 1 out of 1 attempt.
Does that mean these words aren't real?
When you find your soul mate, get down on one knee ten times and wait for eight yeses.
I have so many types of stims.
Today I have intrinsically avoiding stims.
It is hot so my body tries to distract me.
It moves my hands near my face, rubs them together as if to start a fire and pulls saliva out of my mouth.
Some stims are seeking.
They move my body towards a desirable object.
As I type this my hand intermittently hits a checker piece like a twig to a hollow log.
Some stims are pure evil.
They rapidly swing my fists at my head and my loved ones.
Thinking of those stims makes the heat seem more bearable.
I have twenty thousand views.
I can fill up a minor league baseball stadium.
I can find twenty thousand words of gratitude, but it wouldn't be enough.
I can heat up twenty thousand roses in a bath of water.
I think I can do this.
Like a bird needs thin electrical wires to rest, I need each of you.
I didn't before, but now I do.
For each crippled dream may soon come true.
I wonder if electrical pathways can be strengthened.
If you could drink a gallon through a coffee stirrer.
I wonder if the space between dry wall and brick can be filled with more air.
Or if reconstruction is needed.
Can we learn to use these corroded swords to win battles?
Or is it that the sword is trash?
I wonder if I'll really learn to speak.
I hate my autism.
It makes me hurt the ones I love most.
It makes my body act like a wild animal.
It makes me do annoying repetitive things.
It makes my muscles weak and tired.
It makes my senses strange and silly in an irritating way.
I hate being autistic because sometimes it is all that I am.