Street 34

Street 34 — Life’s a beach, until it isn’t. On Street 34, across from the shore, elevated ten floors, 1010 on my door, turn my key to my door, close and lock to be sure, in fear of a home that most would be lucky to be given. On Street 34, the home I adored, in mid-century decor, genie lamps colored orange, from ceiling to floor, upon walls and on doors, hung the abstract of the soul bestowed to an artist’s way of living. On Street 34, some days I’d explore, take walks by the shore, if sad or if bored, if in need of a voyage, into a sea of visitors, by the many by the score, to be alone in a crowd of people I’d barely be seeing. On Street 34, life seemed the norm, yet inside I was worn, barely holding on, a broken shell I’d become, unaware of what’s wrong, yet scattered in pieces on the sea floor where I’d sunken. On Street 34, I live there no more, I’d fallen too far, revolving psych wards took all I’d worked for, took what I lived for, but replaced it with more, new life to steer towards, if I only knew then what I know now, and what I know now is that my life is worth living with an intense world coloured in hues of the spectrum. Poetry by Keira Fulton-Lees  “Being Autistically Alive