“Not my fault, but still my body”
by Jayce Odufuwa
I feel like a child—
not the kind who whines for candy,
but the kind who learned too early
that touch can be a weapon
and silence is survival.
Not a girl, not a boy—
just something.
An object they decided to use
before I ever got to decide
who I was.
My body remembers.
It curls in on itself when I walk past
closets, couches, classrooms—
familiar rooms that turned on me.
Simple things scream.
Cafeterias choke me.
Beds aren’t restful.
Chairs are traps.
I hate that I think like this.
I hate that I don’t see them coming.
My autism makes me late
to danger’s signal.
They smile and I can’t tell.
They hide in plain sight.
I don’t want children.
Why would I curse them
with this bloodline,
with these shaking hands?
And yes—
the image of his face is blurring,
but the memory?
It clings tighter.
It sharpens.
It punctures.
I said yes—
not because I knew,
but because I was taught
that yes is what keeps you alive.
I was a kid.
It’s not my fault.
But that doesn’t mean
I don’t feel the weight
in every room
where I’m just trying to eat,
trying to sleep,
trying to learn—
trying to fucking exist.
So why?
Why do you hurt the ones
just trying to exist?
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