Alexa Daskalakis
Notes on what it means to be human—
written from the edge of time, memory and silence.
Without Shelter
They called her independent. She called it weather.
No one said car.
They said you’ll figure it out,
and smiled like it was faith.
Even five dollars
was considered too much.
When she said she was hungry,
they said I don’t have it—
and laughed.
They said she had options.
One place had a lock.
The other, a quiet
where care should have been.
She slept where the night forgot to look.
Woke before daylight could accuse her.
Washed in sinks meant for strangers.
They said it would build character.
It built silence.
When she said home,
they heard burden.
When she said burden,
they said grow up.
And still—
she stayed polite.
Said thank you to asphalt,
to headlights,
to the heat of engines still running.
They said she was strong.
She was surviving.
They said it with pride,
as if endurance
were love,
and cruelty
were discipline.
Full Legal and Creative Disclaimer:
This is a fictional narrative intended as an artistic reflection on resilience, neglect, and the human need for safety and belonging. It is not based on, nor intended to depict, any real person, family, or institution. Any resemblance to actual individuals or events is purely coincidental.