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Alexithymia, dysphoria in female autism

People say fine, busy, tired,
none of which approximate 
the sight when I lift the plank of myself
and find it crawling with slaters, rimed 
with acrid mould, a bedlam of decomposition 
in which nothing can be read.  
I drop it down again:  
not something I want to touch.  

A child, I learned the right word – good –
and said it reflexively, self-checkout saying 
please take your items. The word 
passes clean through me,  
an empty radio wave.  

Put words to this babel? I tried 
but lost all bearings in the intricacy.  
And you were horrified by what you heard, told me
it surely wasn’t that bad.  
I need terms 
from zoology, neurochemistry, science fiction. 

But when at last I glean them, 
they mean nothing in small talk.  
So I keep doing 
what girls are trained to do, 
paying attention to line and curve, 
painting the same four letters 
on the plank’s sunlit top.