Atreyu Luna
Interpreting the Diagnosis I have the hand of God inside of me. She is angry and trapped. My family was helpless to save me as a child. They did not know the correct medical term, but even if they did I was raised above them, screaming, as the hand held me firmly. I cannot fight that which is within me. Better by far to surrender— accept unconditional dust. Autism is God. She is angry, but not beyond help. She is love. And my lacks, deep neurological caverns pitted by doubt, are where my strength grows. I thrive, weed-like, my soul’s tender rebar. Against all bets.
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