Not Broken
I live just left of center stage,
where quiet hums and thoughts stay long.
I watch the world rehearse its part,
each beat precise, each gesture strong.
But I forget my lines sometimes,
or never learned the script at all.
I speak in colors, shapes, and sparks,
not always words that rise or fall.
There’s comfort in the smallest things:
a pattern, pause, a certain shade.
A fabric soft beneath my hands,
a promise in the way it’s made.
I flinch at sudden shifts in tone,
and fold beneath a crowded sound.
But give me space, and I will bloom
in ways you might not name out loud.
My joy comes sudden, deep, and real,
and sorrow hangs a little more.
I feel the weight of every glance,
each silence settled at the door.
Don’t fix me like I’m something cracked.
Don’t treat my steps as out of place.
I’m walking through a world that spins
at someone else’s pace.
And if I seem a little far,
it’s not because I’m not aware
I’m just beside the noise you make,
breathing softer, being there.
