"To be honest,
I don't understand
what you write,"
a friend confesses,
"I'd have to slow down
to hear the World
you are steeping in."
I smile, as I leave my body,
"It's OK. That's what
everybody says." But some
piece of me is screaming.
"The poems are for me,"
I steel mySelves, "They make me
better, at reading charts."
And this is true, but hearing
mySelves say it, as a mechanism
of defense, drains the Life
out of me. There is no greater
sorrow than this. People tell me,
"I Love that you are
just out Here, being neuro-
divergent, and weird, not
caring." But I do care.
Do not believe the sham.
Every confession is a stab
I welcome, because I want
to know the truth. The Ones
who show me mercy
say, "I don't understand,
but I feel your Word, working me
on some subconscious level."
And I nod, because that is
the Way. "I know," I say,
"I Live at least two
tiers below." "But I think it's great
you let us See your process.
We can hear you," One tells me,
"When you come to
the surface." They mean
Well. So I give them
the bright and funny
reels, of All
the AFAB, screaming,
let us out.
And I die
inside, knowing
what the World wants
from me, is shallow
entertainment."
Jillian Sinnott 