by Luna Lindsey
There is not enough written on Asperger's and love.
I am used to making my own things.
When I used to imagine what drugs felt like,
I thought they must feel like falling in love.
I was wrong. Drugs were a disappointment.
When I imagine what heroine feels like,
It must feel as good as being in love,
Elsewise, why would anyone bother?
When I wonder if I'm happy,
I often decide I must not be.
Because I assume that all good feelings
must be as overwhelming as my bad
Else they must not be real feelings.
When I am in love, I am in love fully,
or not at all.
Depends on the day.
Depends on whether I've decided to love you.
Or maybe it's out of my control.
It means I had to teach myself to express love
in ways that you could understand.
It means I have to learn to hear love
when you express it the way you know.
I am always learning someone else's language.
Waiting for the feelings to be steady and permanent
and as powerful as my bad feelings
all the time.
As trustworthy as my bad feelings.
This poem needs an ending
but an ending never comes.
No bookends or closed parentheses.
The answers never materialize
in a satisfying end of file.
My heart is never open,
For when it opens, it will bleed.
But it never completely closes,