Elizabeth Sigmon, Atypical

Maybe everyone knows, maybe everyone has always known about the ache you feel from the stares of children as you stood in the corner playing ball with the wall and the wall kept winning. It will remain long after you’ve left those haunted fluorescent halls that smirked at you every weekday morning as you run into the wall for the fifteenth time while your head was in the clouds your eyes glued to your feet. You leave that place behind, lock it in a dark closet inside your mind you hope you’ll never be able to find so you will never have to feel that ache again. But you do every time a friend notices your floppy hands for the first time, your impulse to touch everything in sight, concrete textured walls and ita holes that beam so bright