I hear a good song, and I want to play it thirty times, until I’ve memorized each curve, each wave of warm and cold. It moves me, it sways me, it pulls me to pieces. Let’s ride this roller coaster again.
We’re here! Time to interact?
Do as I would be done by? Okay. I don’t want people to look at me so I won’t look at them. (Their eyes catch, like a wool blanket on a scab.)
I don’t mind if Mrs. King asks me my age so it’s okay to ask her hers.
No? It’s not?
The words are like piles of crumbs. They don’t fit together. They sting. The lights buzz. I feel nauseous. I feel like I’m in a scary movie. I need out. Out. Out.
Flapping slow: rhythm.
Flapping fast: simulating a cat’s purr with my hands.
Spinning: carving out a space for myself in the wind, in the whirl, in the world.