Tag: #autisticwriter

The Chiaroscuro Anthology 19/19

No apology, no quarter
By Lee-Anne Ford

You say it came from nowhere.
A lightning strike, an accident, a fluke.
But tell me—
Where did my hair come from, skin, eyes?
Did my voice, hands, blood, bones, arrive by chance?
Mother, look to yourself, I’m half of your DNA.
Father, that’s you too. I’m half of your DNA.
My hair colour, my eyes,
My skin tone, MY AUTISM.
It is in OUR genes.
You don’t get to claim me
in the ways that make you proud
but disown the ways
that make you uncomfortable.
I am not broken.
I am not something that needs fixing.
I am the full, unedited version of us.
When you point a finger?
Four are pointing back at you.
Autism shouldn’t be a surprise.
Because—
Wanderers drown.
Unmanaged RSD kills.
Eating disorders kill.
Unmanaged ARFID is malnutrition.
When water repels, dehydration can kill.
PDA looks like death by police.
The Rule of Three is absolute
Just like our genes
If I die young, it won’t be because I was autistic. It will be because of you.
Because of your world, the one that refuses to see, learn, listen, change.

I was autistic at birth.
I will be autistic when I die.
And every day in between.


Years later, that woman has a daughter
Her own little autistic bundle of joy
Life will be better for her little sweetheart
Autistic life different was her ploy.

Hush little baby, don’t say a thing
Mama’s gonna buy you a fidget ring
And if that ring don’t soothe my girl
Mama will show you how to knit and purl
And if that knitting doesn’t make you smile
Mama’s gonna be here all the while

Mama’s gonna buy you a clockwork bird.
And if that bird’s song doesn’t bring delight,
Mama will hold you through the night.
And if the night’s too dark to see,
Mama’s gonna light up the galaxy.
And if those stars don’t calm your fears,
Mama’s gonna dry all your tears.

And if those tears still find their way,
Mama’s gonna teach you how to play.
And if that play feels too intense,
Mama’s gonna build you a safe defense.

And if that defense starts to fall,
Mama’s gonna be there through it all.
And if the world feels too unkind,
Mama’s gonna help you unwind.

And if unwinding takes some time,
Mama’s gonna sing this simple rhyme.
And if this rhyme doesn’t soothe your mind,
Know Mama’s love is always aligned.

So hush, little baby, don’t you cry,
Mama’s here to help you fly.
And if flying feels too much to do,
Mama’s gonna stay right here with you.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology, 11/19

Chronos’ paradox
By Lee-Anne Ford

You look young for your age
I feel old

Your appointment’s at 1pm
Work backwards to waking

He’s 29, so what?
He makes sense that boys my age don’t

What time is it?
What day is it?

Oh no, what did I forget?
Bulk order of sticky notes
Ten hours later
Am I hungry?

Let me sleep.

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  10/19

Blending life with magic
By Lee-Anne Ford

Sundays, meal prep days
Needs music, words, plays
No need for headphones
Free sound in my zones
The sizzle of a hot pan is chemistry research
The idea of grilled peaches is sweet, pert
The song is light purple, glistening
The words are red, passionate
The recipe glows, alchemy
Kitchen chemistry? No. Magic blooms

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  9/19

I have no voice, how can I scream
By Lee-Anne Ford

From a liquid cocoon into a noisy room
Autistic from birth in a world not ours
Overheads lights, can’t enter this room.
Stim in twilight for hours
Impossible tastes, food is doom
Am I hungry? Can I eat flowers?
The seam allowance burns, awful loom
Wear inside out. Not your bowers.
That smell gags, can’t you zoom,
Run away from the stench towers?
Noise hurts, burns, run from room
Echoes, headphones, give succours

Your world hurts. Make it stop.
My world heals. Never stop.
 

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology, 8/19

The breath between
By Lee-Anne Ford

A mind that walks the spaces ‘twixt it all,
The breath between the beats, the beats ‘neath breath.
You cast your laws, your walls, your hallowed halls,
Yet fail to see the rhythm underneath.
The western wind hums low—a hollow call,
A note that bends but will not break in time.
Autistic hands stretch wide, defy the thrall,
Yet still, you cage the ones who hear the chime.
But who else knows the base of eight, the sum,
Of atoms spun to music carved in spars?
Who counts the spaces, thumb to ghost of thumb,
And maps the void where voices echo stars?
Be deaf, be blind, be dumb—we rise in waves.
The edge of eight is ours—you cannot save.
 

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  7/19

A childhood in deficit and afficit
By Lee-Anne Ford

She’s not gifted, just smart.
She’s not talented, just smart.
She’s a girl, she can’t do that.
She’s a girl, she can’t be that.
Brutal put-down, not my shutdown
Let me throw down, take you down
Do I shine too bright? Wear sunglasses.
Do I fall too low? That’s your shame.
Do I dig too deep? That’s your shallow.
Do I see too much? That’s your blindness.
Brutal shut-down, fallen crown
Let me lie down, adjust my gown
You judge too much. Not my fault.
You’re blind to see. Not my fault.
You cannot touch. Not my fault.
You cannot hear. Not my fault.
Allistic let-down, don’t dare frown
Autistic touchdown, go to town.
We are, we have, we do.
We just don’t do you.
 

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  6/19

Harlequin, pierrot or me?
By Lee-Anne Ford

In an acting class, you learn
Voice, so you can earn
Speech production, so you can earn
Physical expressivity, so you can earn
Character, so you can earn
Acting methodologies, so you can earn
Script analysis, so you earn

In autistic life, you mask
Voice, though speaking hurts; don’t ask
Speech production, pitch and tone; a task
Character, mimicry, improvisation; can’t bask
Acting methodologies, which character, how, I ask
Script analysis, a different language, is that Basque?

Acting for money
Acting for survival
One is milk and honey
The other avoids revile
One is for pleasure
The other brings pain
One is for acclaim
The other to avoid blame
Celebrated existence
Criticised resistance

The Mardi Gras mask, much loved.
The autistic mask, heavy load.
The harlequin, the pierrot.
But what I wear brings me low.
Lest I be thought brute, a-fidget
Hung, reviled, in a social gibbet.

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology, 5/19

High fire danger warning
By Lee-Anne Ford


They said: Adrenal fatigue. Chronic stress. Thyroid imbalance.
My body, a tired machine—sputtering, misfiring, failing.
A cup of ginseng tea, an adaptogen capsule,
A list of herbal tonics to rebuild what was lost.

Rest, recover, reset.
Except I did, and still—
The exhaustion gnawed at my bones,
My brain fogged like morning mist
That never burned away.

They said: Take time off, breathe, relax.
I did. I sat in silence, in stillness, in sun.
Yet the light burned, the air scratched,
And the world remained too loud.

I rattled off dates like a script—
Lines I knew but had never rehearsed.
29 June. He died.
10 July. We buried him.
10 August. Ashes returned to earth.
17 August. My Sammy, gone.

She listened.
Then asked the question that shattered the script.
Are you autistic?

And in that moment,
Every misdiagnosis fell away.
Not just tired. Not just stressed.
A brain running on overdrive
For too many years,
Masking, stretching,
Until the system collapsed.

Is that why Reiki attunements failed?
That autistic heart resisting?
Is that where the burnout started?
Yet Reiki treatments fired healing—
How could it be wrong?

Is it rooted in attachment issues?
From birth to now? Anxious, avoidant.
Autonomic system in disarray.
Does autism mean herbs work differently?
Are different herbs needed for autism?

So many questions. What’s MTHFR?
And still—autistic burnout.
A broken nervous system.
A burnt-out nervous system.
From a burnt-out autistic brain.

The shock and heartbreak.
Skill regression. More than depression.
Neurological disablement.
Lifelong skills, lost.

Where am I? How do I heal?
When does this end?

Take heart, dear heart.
Inner child and old.
Look to your music, to Thirsty Merc.

“She’s the kind of grind that I don’t really mind…
Stand up, little love, I’m about to blow my cover.” 

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology 1/19

I Am Not Your Nightmare
By Lee-Anne Ford

Raise, rise, recognise reductionism, realise        realities
End excuses, embrace equity, empower existence
Sigh, smile, see struggle, strength, stims, silence
Paint pain pink, prioritise presence, push past pity
Ease, echelons echo, elevate empathy, erase empty eulogies
Clean co-existence, challenge condescension, cultivate connection
Thrive together, think thoughts, trust tomorrow

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology


April is Autism Awareness Month. But that’s wrong. We don’t need awareness. We need acceptance.

We need acceptance of the Level 3 autists with significant challenges.
We need acceptance of the Level 2 autists with fewer challenges.
We need acceptance of the Level 1 autists, like me, with fewer challenges than a Level 2 autist—but challenges nonetheless.

We need acceptance simply because our brains are built and wired differently. It is in our DNA; every cell of our body is autistic. We cannot be anything but autistic.

And to us? Neurotypicals—allistics—are the weird ones who don’t make sense.

If you can’t accept that, then at least recognise the equity you deny us. Recognise the social cohesion that is lost in the absence of equity and inclusion.

But back to regular business.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology is a collection of 19 poems, published here throughout April. (If you want everything all at once, there’s a PDF.)

And now—the writer’s statement.



Light alone is shapeless. A flood with no shore, a dawn without contrast. It spills, uncontained, flattening all into a seamless glow. There is no form, no edge, no texture—only a blinding sameness.

Darkness alone is abyss. A void that swallows, erasing all it touches. It stretches infinite, consuming definition, devouring meaning until nothing remains but an echo of absence.

Between them—chiaroscuro. The whisper of shadow against skin, the ember in the midnight hush. Here, light sharpens into something more than mere brightness; it carves faces, silhouettes, stories. Here, darkness finds its purpose—not as oblivion, but as contrast, as depth, as the place where light reveals itself most truly.

What is the light without darkness?
A glare with no soul.

What is the darkness without light?
A silence with no song.

But together—
Together, they paint a world.

Together, they paint an autistic world.


—

The Chiaroscuro Anthology is my contribution to Autism Awareness Month. It is not just poetry—it is my autism laid bare, in shadow and light.

This is my rage at the world’s expectations.
This is my grief for what was lost.
This is my discovery of what was always there.
This is my unification of self.

Each piece is a reflection of contrast, intensity, and depth—the way I experience the world. Chiaroscuro is not just art; it is how I exist.

This is my applied phenomenology