Grave Matter

by Karina Halle

“We have a saying here,” she says softly. “Don’t try to change the lodge. Let the lodge change you.”

See, boys are allowed to be mad scientists. But when women do it? We’re simply labeled crazy. And even at eight years old, I knew there was a difference.

Many neurotypicals think most of us are faking it; they don’t understand how we’re not actually lazy but that there are brick walls that slide down, preventing us from doing things, even things we want to do. When they tell us not to worry about something or not to take something personally, they don’t realize we often can’t. And in the end, they shun us and side-eye us and make pithy comments about how “mentally unstable” we are, especially if we happen to present as feminine.

“I’m staying for you, sweetheart,” he says, grabbing my hand and holding it up to his mouth, pressing his lips against my skin. “I’m burning up for you. You’re my fever, Syd. No cure.”