Swipe Left On Perfection

I learned to meet myself in the mirror
without flinching at the way I glow—
all angles, all sudden weather.
I am awkward, and I am kind.
I am the sum of my sparks, and I carry them now firmly.

Hyperfocus is my lighthouse:
its beam cuts a path through fog and doubt.
I aim it with care, swivel it toward what matters,
and when the light grows too bright, I shade it—
timers, breaks, a friend nearby to body-double til dawn.

Sensory truth is my compass:
I read the texture of rooms, hear footsteps in the walls.
Soft fabrics, quiet corners, headphones like harbors.
I step outside when storms rise in fluorescent seas,
and I tell you—it’s not you, it’s the volume of the tide.

My need for routine is a trellis I built myself,
where restless vines can learn a gentle climb.
Lists as constellations, alarms as small moons;
I give minutes seatbelts, let tasks arrive in single syllables,
start with two minutes, then another, then a breath.

Stimming is my wind-song:
fingers tapping, a pebble turning, shoulders loosening.
I balance the inner weather with rhythm and motion,
and I will name it aloud, so you know it’s comfort, not distance—
a bridge I walk back across to meet your eyes.

Monotropism is a river that runs deep and clear.
When I love, I love with underwater clarity.
I choose when to enter, when to surface,
teach curiosity to blink in daylight,
coax transitions like shy birds from hedges.

Directness is my honest stream.
Words come true-blue, like sky after rain.
I practice pause and softness:
“Is this a good time?” “May I speak plainly?”
Consent is the warm frame around my glass.

Time can dissolve like sugar in tea—
so I color it, box it, name it:
morning gold, afternoon amber, evening slate.
I put tomorrow in a backpack tonight,
leave it by the door where memory can touch it.

When rejection feels like thunder in a teacup,
I steady the saucer with breath and small proof:
ask for clarity, collect kind notes,
remember that silence often means busy, not broken.
I let tenderness teach me gentleness with myself.

Executive mountains are real, but I make them walkable:
break the climb into stones and steps,
invite a companion, lay out water and shade.
I write one verb per line, begin where my feet already are,
replace “finish” with “start,” replace “perfect” with “done.”

Masking was a heavy coat I wore through summer;
I learned to set it down where trust feels safe.
I keep pockets of privacy, name boundaries with a smile:
“I may need a pause,” “bright lights make me quiet,”
“if I look away, I am listening with my whole head.”

Around others, I let my edges be honest:
awkward like wildflowers that follow their own geometry.
I ask for the pace that fits my stride,
offer my steadiness, my curiosity, my humor that arrives late

Self-acceptance is not an ending; it’s a daily craft.
I sand the splinters, oil the hinges, label the drawers.
I change what needs changing, hold what needs holding,
and I explain, because kindness loves clarity:
this is how my mind moves—here’s how I make room for yours.

So let me be myself, here, now—
not polished, not muted, wholly present.
I am awkward, and I am kind.
My traits are sails, not anchors; my responsibility the wind.
Watch me steer—gentle, honest—toward us both.