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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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:: a portrait of my mother mother dresses in white satin, she presses her thin lips together and dabs with pale handkerchief, smiles with rouge- stained cheeks, and yet reveals nothing-- a portrait of relentless tenderness. mother teaches me to walk with feet pointed inward as a bird on earth before taking flight. she walks this earth, too—tender, imagining roses across the sky, falling. 2020// I (Gen. 1) Sometimes I can’t believe how far I’ve come. You really only have the time to look back over your shoulder at what you left behind when you’re not scared of what’s ahead. I wouldn’t say I’m lucky to not be worried about putting food on my daughter’s plate and instead about what private educational institution I should put my son in so his son will be able to ruminate on how to cultivate his stock portfolio instead of reminiscing about the ones who couldn't keep up. It turned her life into a shock. Who are you to mock? Hairy face, spots on her face and a belly with stubborn fat You commented on how she eats a lot, this and that You body-shamed her without knowing the cause You are no one to judge her flaws; She deals with mood swings, hormonal imbalance - Don't blame the syndrome alone for lowering her confidence. fills bookstore shelves & movie theaters because everyone wants to escape & explore corrupt governments, destructive pandemics, injustice & discrimination, an imperfect world from the comfortable distance of a page or screen. I look into the mirror and see not myself but eyes, a nose, and a mouth that resemble mine. I raise a hand up to my face. My reflection does the same. She taunts me. I look at her and see not myself but all that is wrong with me. I see not my hair but the grease that suffocates it. It hurts to shower. The roses grow in the old woman’s yard, with cherry-red heads brandished perpetually at the clouds. They only answer the questions of those who ask nicely. You go to the woman’s house sometimes, to waste away the lonely summer days. She’s an old friend of your grandmother, and she gives you iced tea and cookies when you come over. You’ve seen the roses in her front yard. Gleaming like jewels, scraps of beauty standing against the desolate landscape. One day you ask her, “Why roses?” The old woman smiles, as if it was only a matter of time before you asked. “Roses not only symbolize love,” she says, “but secrecy, too. I like that.” None of us will ever possess enough bittersweet cacao-sugar power to satisfy every person. Yet we still break off pieces of our souls like cookies hoping that there are enough chocolate chips to bring about peace. so we melt alight in fire, burnt butter tickling our remains. |
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March 2024
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