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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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TW: abuse, mentions of self-harm
Pulsing in the tiny capsule of my mind is the tempo of rattan sticks my limbs are chiselled with, an intrinsic rhythm engraved into titanium bones, ever-recurring—even when you say you’ve changed. ma(1), I don’t believe you. 2020: “How much you get for maths?” I knew it wasn’t going to end well, not at all. “85.” I used to think, if dreams did come (true) I’d want to be with a girl before I died. Well, shit, I got what I wanted, got a girl and kinda died just after. the teabag hangs bloated in its own bloodsoup / tries to sink as an insect does / trapped in amber / or as I do / smothered The wind whips through my hair asI Swing under weeping trees – alone except For sparrows waltzing in the grass. Here, Beneath an opaque sky, I hear. start by pulling the threads tactfully unravel the words until syllables are sharp and pierce your rib cage until your heart is wet and spills crimson memorize them I don’t know what it was that made me stick my hand through the car’s window. Drenched in sweat, sizzling sidewalks were halting to a cooling point now that nightfall was returning. I stretched my hand further out as we drove past a grass field. I could touch the air and cradle my emotions for once. The sky was clementine orange, and the moon was returning home from its day-long journey. My hair was carelessly fluttering in the wind, and I could feel my forgotten love for Summer seep back into my splintered bones. I realized that I had been unconsciously smiling towards the sunset. history is the dailiness of weapons prescribed upon our bodies. it is, and all at once, a cleaver wedged in the funny bones of secretaries, that is, a meat thermometer defacing the frozen cheese pizzas on which we sacrifice our metaphors for contemporary sin. My mother is a woman, One who enchants the wind with a golden tongue, twisting blasphemous words and hymns from lands far from me, One whose back is whipped raw and harsh by blue fires fueled by endless rainfall, One whose womanhood contradicts her role as mother. |
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March 2024
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