Change creeps in on quiet feet, A shadow where the known and unknown meet, It whispers soft but feels like thunder, Tearing safe walls I used to hide under. ...... To continue click read more

A poem on being labeled as a high functioning autistic adult. "They call me “high-functioning,” like it’s a medal I wear, but they don’t see the silent battles beneath my practiced stare."

Poem about what I would do if I had my miscarried child still. This is an important poem to me. Please be kind.