Defying Stereotypes Since 1976

Poem: Dust

(Note: the follow poem contains profanity.)

I used to believe in you.

Your name was Normal. You were a fantastic idol,
a phantasm made out of God, pedestal-high,
queen of all things that I could never touch. You
wore my face like perfection even better than I did. Body
shrunken to the size of late night cock dreams. You
had no script, nothing to consult – the words were just
sliding through your brain, reconstructing every synapse like
mere connections between hemisphere and region were not
enough. And I,

the neophyte,
the disciple. I did not yet know that
Asperger’s had already stamped itself into the space
behind my eyes in loose cable connections and
blank dictionaries where the how-to manuals on human relations
should be. But yet you beckoned, not with finger, not with
eyelashes fluttering like black spiny flags. You just
stood there,
mute,
the expectation between us a steel-cabled bridge,
and it was just enough to let me know what you wanted.
Reach,
you said. And I

did. Until my back ripped itself apart,
until my spine slapped me, until my
arms fucking hurt like rubber bands that
forgot that their skins could break. Muscle wire, worn out,
the end of feeling human.
Just reach a little further,
yeah, that’s it.
Yes, Torquemada’s rack is much
kinder than you. When I looked again, I found that I had
stretched myself into a ghost, horizon-thin,
invisible to the naked eye.

It took me years to
collect myself back into human form. And
here I am. But you are still here, pedestal-low,
made out of myths and belt buckles slammed into my back
and serrated edge screams and
my nightmares,
which all wear your face,
and like I said,
it’s just like mine. Except yours is plastic Heaven,
fired and molded from a vacant, back-door Hell
heart.
No. I want none of your pleasures, none of your
blessings.
I am not your people, and you are not
my God.
I suck in a deep breath and reach out to
touch you –

and when I do,
you collapse into a mound of dust.
So this
is what my dreams were made of.
I laugh, shake my head, and
turn a scarred and bruised back to you.
Fuck you. I’m not
sorry for leaving you behind.

© 2010 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.
Original poem published April 20, 2010 on
Raven’s Wing Poetry

Comments on: "Poem: Dust" (1)

  1. Heather said:

    Nicole,
    Awesome words of truth! You verbalized how I have been feeling for years. I am an Aspie and I am learning to accept my differences as gifts. It has been a hard road trying to understand why I seemed to be an outsider and considered strange. I personally thought I was fine but unfortunately everyone around me didn’t get the memo.So I tryed to fit in for years with little to no avail.

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