I would rather your hands were still,
Traumatised hands, dissociated hands.
I would rather they were muted, dead,
Lumps of flesh, perfect for my necrophiliac
I would rather your body stayed centre
Repressed body, ingesting its pain,
Swallowing its joy, until feelings become
Poisons, until your body attacks itself
I would rather your voice made words,
Sensible noises, noises I can understand,
I would rather your voice was like mine.
Was mine. Until then, I would rather not
I would rather call you impaired.
It helps me to see you as broken,
As my project, as my muse. I want to write
A book about your pain, and pretend I did not
I would rather you didn’t get angry.
It is ugly. Disabled people are inspirational
Not opinionated. I hate when you use
The words I forced out of you against me.
Calm down. Quiet hands. Stand still.
So I don’t spill as I fill you with myself.
Let me violate every aspect of your being
With a question-mark, with a second guess.
Now, look at you go! You would never know
You were autistic. Nobody will ever see you again!
Isn’t that swell? Well? It is polite to say thanks.
Don’t you know what I have been through to