The Changeling

This poem is an attempt to address some of my experiences with being autistic in an allistic world, but I can’t say I’m really happy with it.

“The Changeling”
February 2018, in College Park, Maryland

I was not born of mortal flesh,
but of the air and dark;
My soul is not a human soul,
but one from airy realms.

Now, nursed on mortal milk and weaned
to feed on earth-grown bread,
My body is of human flesh;
this world is mine as well.

Although not native to your land,
I have no other one;
So we must learn to dwell together,
with our diff’rent minds.

I know you think my ways are strange,
but yours seem stranger still:
As though your senses are not tuned
to see what’s ‘fore my eyes.

You do not seem to hear the din
of constant background noise,
the jarring pain your shouts inflict,
upon my rattled ears.

You like that loud and crowded hell,
the place you call a “bar”:
that’s fair enough, but don’t call me
too lazy to go out.

Or blame me for my loneliness,
if I won’t come with you:
it’s not my choice to stay at home,
but there I cannot go.

So far as I can see, it seems
that you are glued in place:
you do not pace or flap or rock
in time with what you feel.

And yet you say that I am wrong
and taunt me till I flee.