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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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[Content warning: drinking, mentions of suicide] ![]() numbers to numbers to darling faces— the union of i and μ. as if a term could rouse its whisper and whittle a heart to binary. I know you’re not a button, hun because pushing won’t bring you back to life. let me evaluate your function: f(x) = a soul meant to die at 15, surrounded by no-one, where x is our laughter and believe me, babe, it’s undefined a gun isn't a gun until you ferment it and chug the trigger to a gag. it's all math. just numbers. but we ain't hyperbolic on Monday, I foiled the pews as they sectored your body padded with caramel puddy, transforming my ziskeit to a system of vectors I did my homework at the funeral. crisp, creased paper curled in your palm an algebraic water lily damp with tearing deluge drew my mind from discordant addendum back to your factors: (x - drinking)(x + me) if you showed me how you worked, maybe I could’ve solved you. if I didn't yell, maybe you wouldn't’ve done it. I'm the variable. logically, a face can't be ubiquitous. it can't reflect on every plane every intercept of redwood abutting soil those barking titans you adored almost as much as me. until you didn't. I don’t see your eyes in exponents a beautiful brain in a bell curve what happens when you divide death by 0. it just don't compute. you were my only constant— now, you're desargue’s worst fears baked into an infinite casket where our parallel lines converge. you're unprovable. I'm left in two dimensions. show me what it all means, duckie: (imaginary martyrdom + empty bottles) over (hopeless hope) outputs a tsebrokhn quotient that fills notebook after notebook, thrown against memory-spattered stucco walls last month, your coefficients coincided and I’m left to compose an impossible inverse. this month, I burned our problems. their cinders ascended like noether, descartes, mirzakhani, euler, kovalevskaya, ramanujan, every nerdlet that tried to make sense of a senseless world. it was beautiful and I still saw rasters in your face. the angles aflame. next month, I try to measure your circumference and find there's less and more of you left than before. you're quantitative. I eat under your redwoods and see a forest waltz between faeries and phantoms. I dance a little. a lot. in a copse of fading echoes, you eclipse digits, and like a waning gibbous, your face is blurring. numbers are static.
things aren't meant to last. faces to faces to darling numbers and back. Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
September 2023
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