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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 am a drowning fish. I know this as soon as I step out into the light one moon glinting off the sun, the other reflecting its heat there is a kingfisher singing in his crackerbarrel tones full of ginger ale and regrets he tells me many things but i am drowning and i cannot hear him Instead I hear waves of had tos and should haves and could’ve dones they crash through me like a fledgling too eager to leave his mother’s nest It stings to hear them jumble and stick in my chest, writhe, rise up into my throat they pause, contemplating next moves and how the kingfisher is driving them down with his song i am drowning. They are sinking me low, low, lower and i can see the bottom of where I should be it is cold and dark and empty. Desert, is what I think when I see it think? Fissures are opening in my skull the kingfisher drones on i close my eyes and listen. its song is sharp. I feel it in my bones The darkness is spiderwebbed in front of my eyes and i see shards of imagery like shattered glass mirrors they reflect, refract, reinvent my soul i am not drowning. i am flying The knot of should have beens fights, loses, falls, disintegrates into ash-char and salt and slips silently from my lips, the shadow of a cry on my tongue and i realize maybe we are all too focused on the supposed to bes that we forget about the who i ams 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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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
March 2024
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