'You don't look autistic'
They say it with a smile,
like it’s a compliment,
like they’ve given me a medal for passing
their unspoken test.
“You don’t look autistic.”
As if autism wears a uniform,
as if it’s stitched into my skin
like stripes or scars.
As if they’d know it when they saw it
like a warning sign,
like a barcode stamped across my forehead.
What they mean is:
“You make me comfortable.”
“You don’t disturb my picture of normal.”
“You laugh when I laugh,
your voice doesn’t rattle in monotone,
you don’t flap your hands in public,
so you can’t possibly be
you must just be quirky, shy,
a little intense.”
But I’ve learned to braid my words into their rhythm,
to hold my hands still until the ache burns,
to rehearse every conversation like a script
until the mask fits tight enough
to leave me breathless.
They don’t see me in the bathroom,
palms pressed to my ears
when the lights are too sharp,
when the noise drills through bone.
They don’t see the exhaustion
of building a disguise brick by brick,
only to be told it isn’t real enough
because they can’t see it.
“You don’t look autistic.”
No, I look like survival.
I look like camouflage.
I look like someone who’s spent years
learning how to disappear in plain sight.
Autism isn’t a costume I can take off,
it’s the skeleton under my skin,
the language of my brain,
the way my heart interprets the world.
You can’t see it,
because you’re not looking.
And I’m tired of looking acceptable.
Tired of hearing my identity erased
by words that pretend to be praise.
So next time,
don’t tell me what I don’t look like.
Ask me what it feels like.
Ask me what it means.
See me,
not your stereotype.
Because I’m not here to fit your picture.
I’m here to exist.
Copyright ©
Lyra Nox
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