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You’ll notice a distinct lack of punctuation and capitalization. It’s a deliberate choice. Lately, I’ve been exploring how presentation alters the meaning and perception of poetry.

I’m a late-diagnosed autistic woman, and as such, I’ve spent my life chained to strict rules—both real and imagined. I found safety in the surety of routine and regulation.

It was also stifling.

Not knowing I was autistic meant I didn’t know why I had to follow all of these rules.

Imagine, if you will, a young woman standing at a cross-section. You notice how odd it is that she’s standing still, waiting for the cross light to turn green, even as a crowd of pedestrians pass her by. They know they can cross the street—the light will change at any moment, and the traffic has already stilled.

Do you judge her?

She feels judged. She feels separate, alone.

She’s arguing with herself, screaming inside.

It’s okay to cross. She says to herself.

Why can’t you just move? What’s wrong with you!

She’s crying and screaming and dying inside. But she can’t cross. Because those are the rules. And rules keep you safe.

Now that I know why this happens, now that I know I’m autistic, I’ve decided it’s time to start breaking some fucking rules. 

Are you going to break any rules today?