I have a certain fork I’ll use. It’s relatively small, It’s got an X-pattern on the handle And a half-diamond between the center prongs. Anything else makes my skin crawl. Smooth forks? Too slimy. Aggressively textured forks? Too much. I have a specific seat on the couch. It’s in the corner, by the big white pillow. The pillow is falling apart, And the couch cushion is worn with age, But any other spot feels wrong. Center of the couch? Too exposed. The opposite corner? Wrong angle. I have to be wearing socks, Otherwise the different textures of the floor Will flood my brain with its inconsistency. I have to put every sticker I ever collect Onto the sides of my bed, Otherwise it’s a sticker wasted. My life has to have a rhythm, A steady beat, a 4/4 count, Otherwise the melody of my life dissolves into the chaos of a meltdown. My friends joke, “You must have a touch of the ‘tism,” But if anything, The ‘tism is strangling me.
