I cannot sustain your eyes,

But I can know your pain.

It’s more than a random platitude

Some are prone to pass across the table of life.

But, rather, this sensation exists deep inside,

Almost audible,

A ripping apart in the vast fabric

Of the heart.

The threads dangle torn,

Pierce within like a thorn.

Though I do not own your experience,

It so often feels like my own,

Possessing me down to the bone.

I don’t often find the power to fully speak it,

But my tears silently find their way.

Oversensitive, some have snorted.

Overworried, some admonish.

Don’t make yourself sick fretting over something you can’t do anything to actually change.

Be the stereotypical robot we know autistics to be.

You aren’t supposed to have any empathy.

Yet, I cannot help but wonder-

Is this not what burden for my fellow man should look like-

Laying down one’s life for one’s friends,

A soul’s cry at a time?

Not with cliche`s carelessly thrown to the wind

Or pocket change casually phoned in.

And I can’t help but feel 

I’d rather be accused of overcaring in my quiet way,

Take on a little salt in wounds for others,

Than be able to look pain in the eyeballs

And toss none but a few empty words

Its way…

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