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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 side effect, a terrible side effect of my whole family. The genes they have are not the genes I have and I terribly detest my history because the history I got is not the history I wanted. A rebel from within
with thoughts vicious (they say) and a terrible truth teller I am, my thoughts are like the rocks getting twisted in a hurricane and the weight of the silence of aftermath kills my innocent soul slowly and steadily. It whispers how are you into my ears like a lullaby and throws me into the arms of nightmares who coax me to harm my folks. I am a killer, my father shouts in the alley. It's not new, the blame-game, each generation has its own new set of characters but the repetitive despicable story. My mother knows who jumped on her dreams and gave it a torturous death but she stays quiet being loyal to her husband and family. But I spoke and now I am a killer who bathed in sunshine every afternoon because the mundane walls of her room suffocated her. On the subway nearby I see myself walking with a small bag, running away from home, a home which could never be mine. The heavy weight of catastrophic glances push my heart into an ICU, it is cold and numb remembering how I tried but could never fit in the age old rules our witty ancestors made. My father doesn't understand modernised terms like freedom and feminism flashing on the television or I assume he refuses to and my mother is too busy to look at it. She is happy or I assume tries to be happy with her spices and utensils, a small world now she refuses to get out of. They don't understand how it feels to romanticize the iron bars one is trapped in, the bars made by their hallucination. It's preposterous to lose yourself according to someone's rules, if I want to lose myself I will do so by kissing each cloud walking in the lane of the skies. I feel they don't understand freedom because everyone is not a rebel, and not everybody is thirsty to drink the vial of craziness and independence. I am a side effect dipped in duality of the night which makes me both nostalgic and angry at the same time. I am a side effect of my proud ancestors, I am a side effect no poet would want to write about because it is hard to tame a muse who is in love, love with her dreams that are catastrophic for others. Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
May 2023
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