I sometimes see my reflection in the dirty glass.
The more I ignore the transparent wall between us, the more obvious it becomes.
Still, I’ve set my mind to this protest.
My acceptance of the filth collecting on my side of the pane cannot be ignored.
If I attempt to clean it, I’m acknowledging it’s existence.
However, I cannot look away.
The flickering shadows of movement capture my interest.
Though, my fear of being seen will not allow me to obtain a better view.
I refuse to clean my side again.
For a short time, my side was without dirt.
One day, while we were in sync, I looked at the glass for far too long.
I wanted to see beyond my own replicated image.
More than the other side of the clear divide.
I began to notice the suns rays trip upon the imperfections.
How alive I felt.
When glass is made with the least of qualities,
if wiped thoroughly on both sides,
it’ll still show hints of the very grains of sand that made it possible.
The dirt wasn’t cooked out in the beginning.
You never came to see for yourself.
This window is in a weird place on the wall.
I’m looking up while you’re looking down.
I got tired of waiting for you to notice my tapping,
while I stood on the stairs waiting.
Waiting on instructions from my mentor.
After being in a storage trunk for all those years,
I’m now loose in the basement.
The lock just fell off the box one day.
Now, here I am, wild and free.
Staring at the layers of dirt on the panes.
I’ve let it all collect to create a fear of cutting myself on the edges.
Breaking the window is the obvious way out of here to the main floor.
But I know what I am, and where I’m coming from.
And what I’ll do once I’m up there with you.
Dr. Samuel Frankenstein, may he never unlock the door to the dungeon he built for his sister’s handicapped child, lest I may pull him down the stairs.
antihero autistic 