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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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shh don’t speak fingers tainted with moonlight spread over lips hair like sunlight on rippling waves shorn like a sheep’s, sold before the remnants stain red voice cut off in a ragged cliff edge, seagull circles, calling over salt-flecked waves, crashing again and again into the earth, willing her to come home gray skies in irises mirror blood on their hands, wisps of pain that cling to their clothes like smoke cigarette ash in the tray of her palm his sharp tongue is the beak of a vulture that has already taken her for dead she is losing shh don’t speak it will all be over soon Alula Spradlin, age 13, was born in Oregon, where she now currently lives with her younger sister and parents. She started writing in fourth grade and the hobby quickly became a passion for poetry. Although she hasn't yet had her work published, she aspires to become an author. Comments are closed.
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March 2024
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