His Autism

His Autism



It’s not him I hate,

It’s his Autism,

I loathe it with a burning passion,

It’s a fire in my blood that won’t stop torching me with it’s pestering flames until I char,

It’s an all consuming flood that rocks my perturbed senses until I drown with nothing left but my anger--which comes with an infinite supply of energy--to hold onto,

This loathing that I feel, shakes me like an earth quake,

Tears me into two,

Until I crumble from my whole self and lose my morals,

Until my mind scrambles in all directions,

It’s not my brother’s fault,

No one’s fault,

But for once, it would be nice to blame somebody,

To hurt them for the crimes put upon my shoulders,

I would blame them for more than Matthew’s Autism,

I’d blame them for my anger,

For my unrestrained, heartless hits and strikes,

I would blame them for my weakness and my powerlessness to overcome these faults,

But there is no one to blame,

Acceptance of this disease is a cruel joke,

For I am merciless when it comes to the evil of Autism,

Autism arrows fear into the hearts of all mothers,

And hatred into the minds of siblings.

It’s not him I hate,

It’s his Autism . . .