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You open the door.

Stare intently in.

The door closes.

You open the cupboard.

Peer quizzically at the cans.

The cupboard door swings shut.

You open the fridge door again.

Nothing has changed.

Same food sits on the shelves.

Magic is not real.

The fridge just makes us wish it was.

The light reminds us of our disappointment.

I choose to pick her up.

I choose to walk through the room.

In her fear my hand was clawed.

It was my fault.

Not hers.

Physical pain is imminent.

Yet, what destroys more cruelly

is the words that cut you deeper

than you thought physically possible.

Get the room/desk/tablet organized.

Then next physical items crossed off the imaginary list.

Look at the chaos left behind.

Give up and realize your brain can never be organized like a neurotypical’s can.

When the smell

exceeds your capacity

you know something needs to be done.

So out with the litter tray

and replace it soon with a fresher, cleaner one.

Life in a room.

Hollow and alone.

Mind blazing elsewhere.

Away from here.

Body stops.

Mind forgets.

Imagination has become real.

No sex with robots.

You may forget me.

I will not remember you.

You will know me.

I will not know you.

You may see me.

I am blind to you.