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an open space for youth writing & mental health discussion
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 I forget the last time
I set foot in a park I forget my old friends Their laughs and smiles and mannerisms I forget what my grandfather looked like He exists solely in sepia tone portraits  [Content warning: self-harm/suicide attempt. Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255]
“Get out of our way, weirdo!” they shouted. I felt like I was being crushed under a mountain, My heart pounded in my chest, tears came next, I felt lonely, fallen and devastated.  [Content warning: depressive/anxious thoughts]
no one wants someone so broken they can’t pick up the pieces of the wreckage everyone wants someone who’s made it through the dark has harrowing stories about how they faded until there was nothing left then found a miracle hidden in shadow  I see myself abandoned in infinity.
there'll be glass there, glass where the raindrops will race. an unending, ethereal solitude an abandoned existence.  one: lessons
i remember my father talking in the kitchen about the chinese dragon as he prepared his lunch. “it’s a symbol of power,” he told me, “strength, and luck.”  orange skin between my teeth,
the smoke-sweet flavor still remains; on my shirt are orange stains, the table holds a citrus wreath: drops of juice wet underneath while I sit with a rotting brain.  the tree splits open
and I see every pair of open arms I’ve ever known some innocent most decapitated and decaying, they skulk towards the version of me that asked for a glass of water. opaqueness  [Content warning: mentions of self-harm, depression]
i. there is a mermaid in the bathroom, and her alabaster heart splays moondust on the tiles. i find iridescent tears clogging the drain / unconsciously, my fingers reach out to clutch / beauty in its final moments, reveries / fluttering like decaying butterflies to a sky / with opened arms.  In the photo my father took last year,
my grandmother and I stand on the shaved grass in the front yard of her house in Gonjiam. The sweet and fruity aroma of Mugunghwa flowers wafts across the garden. I see the watercolor sky free of clouds and pigeons graze over  i wonder why girls have to be broken to be beautiful
and why boys wait to be fixed by hands that can barely hold their own weight he calls me at night and i can hear the candied, the crushed, the syrup dripping from his lips slurred words that shouldn’t feel this soft but they do, and there will be time to repent when the sun comes up  One day
Ah, one day I will look deep into your eyes In the depths of your black pupils And I will say that you planted sunflowers on me. They grow and curl up in my guts, The long green stems go up to my throat, They blur my vision, Steal the air from my poor lungs.  if only these chipped bones would feel
something bigger than breath chafing broken-elevator lungs, the thistles prickling in wait under my skin. cast a fishing line into sullied consciousness and you’ll find shards of sea glass, ennui eroded until it shines like something beautiful.  Jesus
my prayers chant before dawn cross shine pure like morning sun my deep piety prompts hands to grip like mussels scorching breathing floating above stubborn clavicle weep within my wonder Your Bible of my profanity  taps on the door and other clichés,
sometimes i wonder if i cry too much. now i didn’t know there was an upper limit to salted tears and wilted water, a quota on how much redness could take over a face until i felt myself cold on the ground, having hit the ceiling and ricocheted back--  Manuel’s neck fried under the cruel Texas sun. His favorite long-brimmed Toquilla hat would have protected him. Instead, a baseball cap was a scant substitute. Carlos, his boss, demanded, “Look like you belong here. Not a lawn monkey.”
Manuel picked up a heavy saw and climbed the first of five large oak trees. His usual partner had called in sick. The two were the only Ecuadorians on the landscape crew. Hours later, Manuel’s t-shirts and pants dripped with sweat. The saw frequently slipped from his grip. I am going to finish cutting the last branch and come down for a short siesta, thought Manuel. He was perched on a thick tree limb when it snapped. For an instant, Manuel felt the cool breeze on his wet skin as his small body plummeted to the ground. The bliss was snatched away by the agony of the saw landing on him. The world around the boy faded black.  There are days
I have wondered if I am truly a poet, If I will ever belong. There are days when I know That I should hear the people telling me to take my time And to love deeply and To hurt incredibly Because the ending will be all the more worth it.  [Content warning: strong language, drug use, sexual reference]
It’s always winter there, but it feels like autumn, because it’s all slightly dead and slightly broken. It’s 2013 and you’re still young and skinny and your family can afford the trip. They use pounds there but the pounds look like big stamps and you forget it’s money and you start buying stuff only a teen would. It’s 7:30 not 4:20 but you’re smoking all the same. You don’t care, you have long, silver cigarettes (the cheapest, still too expensive) for breakfast. You drink Monster before classes, not coffee, because you know you’ll need it and because you pretend to care but don’t and that’s okay because you’re 16 and in love and there’s parks everywhere and people say hi and no one steals a thing because you’re in Europe and South America is far away. |
