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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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![]() your hands, they are storytellers they shake with the faults you've written in their creases. sunset stained
golds spill from your fingers the whispering accusations of the gentle sun and sky you think yourself a fallen star a pseudo-atlas of your home walking around like the planets rested on your shoulders fissuring your skeleton spelling self hate in the cracks your soul is too big for your body the fractures burn sometimes, when you talk about them a girl with a small voice and a creaking form it doesn't take too long for the sounds to fill the air. And it dawns on you, in the same colors as the stains on your hands, how much you did not sound like the accused you are too human tripping up and falling and getting up again with the help of other blemished hands. you sit at the kitchen table, midnight the sky trampled in a carpet of stars and the chair does not shake at the magnitude of your mistakes Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
November 2023
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