Boxed up Boy

I love his face.

His ears reddening, his cheeks reddening, when he sees (knows)
He has done something wrong.

I love his range of facial expressions.

I hate myself for even loving the way his face crumples
in such vividly visual disappointment (in himself, in his toy).

His face speaks a thousand emotions, a thousand words to me.

His thick, thatchy hair (it spikes you to kiss).
His gappy teeth and square ‘little man’ jaw.
His wiry, robust and strong little body.

I want him to get the Stars Of Achievement.
I want him to read The Words.
I want him to reach the rainbow square and show them all.
Show them all.

I want his teachers to like and understand him.
I want other children to love him as I do.

He is so funny.
So, different.

I fear he will choose never to fit in,
and be lost forever.

I hold his warm little hand.
My heart is fierce with protective love; not soppy:
I am fighting my love,
To help him understand the sorrow of having
To ‘Fit in’
To ‘Do as he is told’
To ‘Be like all the others’.

To crush his exuberant madness,
His brainwaves,
His creative force.

To crunch him up,
Tight.
In a box.
Like school and society want.

Controllable, bland, Vanilla Boy.

Owey, Owey Oatflake.

Hide and hold a fragment of your beautiful, crazy, shiny self.

You have no idea how it will comfort you when you are older.

Asperger's on sports day

It’s the not taking part that counts.