She rids herself of me,
I begin to struggle,
Pointlessly,
She is only present in body to bid farewell,
No soul, no room for discussions,
The end began last year, she says,
She has been hinting me of her despair,
I was consumed by me then, it appears.
She has skinned now,
And I have fallen with it,
Left behind to decompose in dirt and rain.

A year after, I am diagnosed with Autism,
I am not good at receiving hints after all, it seems,
But don’t take me for an example,
It has taken me 40 years to begin to see, and that is not always true still.
Even if I was normal, I am a man;
A diagnosable pre-condition for short-sightedness,
So if you are just beginning to send clues,
Hoping one day he sees your hints, and wakes a changed man, and says and does exactly what you need him to say and do,
Let go of Hollywood,
Forget Instagram,
If you love him, sit him down, and tell him things are piling up,
Tell him you will leave in one year if he doesn’t acknowledge your struggles,
If you really love him, gently teach him how to do it too,
He will do it,
Unless he is like me.

My female readers: "They are all like you."