by Xavier
Hands unsure of where to
tuck themselves
Whether the infantile cover
of a broken atlas mouth
or the steady conjugation of pockets.
The ecstacy of fidgeting
underneath a desk.
Picking off the scabs on my knuckles
and waiting for the clot
to pick off again.
The impossible height of adults
washed my peccant hands
with the pump pink soap
that smelled so sanitary
it almost smelled like vomit
"Look at me when I'm talking to you"
said the mountain to discomfort.
The unlatched velcro of my scuffed shoes
urges me not to cry
and start hyperventilating
but then my face is wet and
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry"
and the rest eats itself.
These habits are worn like a habit
of mud
weighing down the
covered bridge of my clavicle.
Incanting symptoms
through the cues in my breath,
passing for shy or soft spoken
but these autistic hands,
unsubtle and sure of their mistakes,
give me away
And if you asked me
I'd tell you it happened
while I slept.
*image from here
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