My blood runs cold,
My mum sits down,
She tells us,
My eyes tear up,
My brother is silent,
Denying it.
I wail in denial,
Then research in depth,
Mortality rate is 1%,
Not so high,
But then I remember,
That the chance of autism is 1%
And I have autism,
Because we are the 1% family.
I take a shower,
to clear my head,
On the rail,
I spot my dads razor,
I reach out to it,
And hope,
Hope for death,
Because I am the 1% child
As lucky as a builder who walked under a ladder, then tripped and broke a mirror