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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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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. Mystery girl (she was a)-- Draped in black wherever she went, a Misty, shadowy raven cawing (clawing) her way into my heart. Once I heard the rustle of her wings at twilight. She looked real good under the scattered moonlight that hid the scars on her wrist, glinted off her watch then she moved towards me, got real close with her bitter-brown eyes of coffee. I tried to crush the butterflies in my stomach with smooth, cold stones of logic (the sight of her stopped them) That was the problem When I saw her the next day she walked with me, let the sun wash her skin in warmth and make her look like a desert at dusk (a phoenix ablaze), stunning. And that was the problem Belladonna, that deadly nightshade (beautiful lady) stole my breath away and now her absence chokes me. She does not ask how I am, my belladonna-- she has better things on her mind I lose mine and she keeps living. That which she likes most, she says, is happy all the time (her joy is infectious, the way) I could never be (but the other one could). For you, belladonna, I would put on a costume, don that smile you like so much (on the other one’s face) if you’d please let the plague of my existence, infectious with blight in place of joy, seek you out once more. My belladonna would rather not. She is carefree and lovely, whimsical, a flushed cherry blossom with no taste for the stench of my decay. Her affection is irrelevant, insignificant, meaningless (is what I tell myself) I don’t give a fuck (I long for her words, I long for her smile)-- I give lots of fucks, actually. I am a wholehearted prostitute of fucks for my belladonna. Tricked by the future I picked, I know it with certainty, the incontestable truth that my belladonna, oh, belladonna, she has tired of my incessant melancholia, grown weary with such a creature as myself just like I have with—my—self. The time has come to stop entertaining hope stop begging my beautiful, beautiful belladonna to call me whatever you want (as long as you call me). Belladonna, I promise you this: never again will your cinnamon-sweet eyes have to drown their swirling beauty with the horrors of my words. Take flight with your great curled feathers to travel a great big distance (away from me)-- Take flight and use me as a cautionary tale to warn your fellow ravens with. And I’ll squeeze out thin layers of glue to stitch my eyes closed shut their lids tight together and forget that there ever was such a thing as my lovely belladonna. Isabelle Qi is 16 years old and lives in New Jersey. She loves writing and has been doing it for her entire life. Her work has been nationally recognized by organizations such as the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, the New York Times, etc. She loves writing personal stories and deeply emotional poems. Comments are closed.
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March 2024
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