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Alexandra Feb 17
Grandma, is fading.
Hester, truly beloved.
I wait for the day you can't remember my name.
A product of moral offense, you lived your youth in the shadow.
Until you were 18, your life, your identity was a lie
You married
You gave birth to 6 babies, 2 now guard over you.
****, grandma you gave everything of yourself away
To those who don't appreciate it
My god do you love fiercely
****, I love you.
I'm terrified of the years where I must live without you.
Only few people in this life will love you unconditionally.
You are mine.
Alexandra Feb 16
Twisted briers pierce kaleidoscope thoughts - as I studied the gathering of my peers beside me. Why was that comment funny? Why did she shrug her shoulder so casually?
Conversations, interactions, the messpot of human dealings - alienlike.
Kids know when you're different, even if you don't, yet.
******* hell, I can't wear trousers, or my legs burn.
I'm 24. Twenty-four.
24 years of navigating a world still so foreign that I can't decode it.
Is she mad at me? I can't tell.
This diagnosis doesn't change the person I've come to know.
But, ****, it makes sense.
I'm 24, I have autism.
Alexandra Jan 26
Age
Dried tears track forgotten
Rivets and trodden paths
Wizened map of age
Alexandra Jan 23
Before the pain I was
 a young limb to the flourishing tree that was my future. Impaled by poisoned fingers of steel my branch rotted at the joining to the trunk to detach - completely. Rotting on the ground,
I was picked up, assessed and
deemed salvageable .A gifted carver took Her knife to my flesh and carved someone new, an utter stranger ingrained with the threads of my life.
Alexandra Jan 23
I'm sitting here
with the rain pouring down.
Trying to get my feet on the ground.
I stay awake and look to the sky
but all I hear are the tears angels cry -
Mourning for half the sky
I wrote this when I was 11, grappling with grief at being targeted by a man whose face I cannot remember.
Alexandra Jan 6
Tongues of flame licked,
Twisted and swam
Among driftwood and husk
Crushed cans lie by boots and barefeet alike,
Hunting dogs snuffle the undergrowth, fur matted in boar blood.
Torn, tired and scarred hands rest between scuffed knees
A brief respite, for all attending will awake before dawn
Cane, cattle, dirt and toil is in my DNA
As a child, legs brown in dust, littered with scabs - legacy of a farming childhood.
I'd watch the fire-bug sparks drift toward the soft evening sky, adorned in cold unreachable jewels,
And listened,
**** destroyed a years worth of crops,
Price of fertilizer was increasing
The price of sugar plummeted
Underneath the lightheartrd camaraderie and swapping stories of pigging,
These men were terrified,
Tired,
Losing hope and will,
And I knew,
I knew, that this life would not be mine.
On the farm it was common to spend a Friday night with locals around a bonfire. This is an ode to children of farmers who grew up watching and living the realities of farm- life. Farmer suicide is something that can't be dismissed.
Alexandra Jan 5
My dearly beloved,
I mean me of course.
Realisation that at the end
I will be joined by no other
than my former selves.
The contemplative child,
the argumentative adolescent,
the stern steadfast teen,
the resigned, mournful, dead in the heart adult.
Now, in mid-twenties, battled, won and lost.
Worn, determined, haloed  by oblivious might
Who will I be in the next stage of life?
Yet to be determined by me.
Strength, blindness and toil.
I forge on, while end of human era is near,
Closer, with each passing breath, a child is born
Destined to a world that rages on fire unseen,
And yet, I sit, I drink tea
I watch Greta fight
With conviction I thought once ruled me,
And yet, still I sit
Still I drink tea,
Wondering vainly,
Who might I be?
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