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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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![]() my scraped knees are tinted with the primary colored paint of the schoolyard. the memories have cheapened but they hurt still, sepia-toned yet somehow fresher than morning dew. i scrubbed at them with the bristles of dollar-store toothbrushes dipped in rubbing alcohol, secretly relishing the burn. the scratches on my palm disappear in the daylight, simple wounds of self-protection. sometimes i pick at the half-healed scabs, pink-backed and ringed in white.
every year has added another layer, but my mother’s fingers peel the barbed-wire worries from my skin. suddenly i am nine years old again, made of strawberry jam, in a world as soft as rabbit fur - not innocent, but still simple. i want to wrap these moments in silk and swallow them, settled inside my heart forever, right between my aorta and right atrium so they can trickle slowly into my pulse. the world has shifted since then, but the sun still knows all of my secrets, like how i still count my steps endlessly in my head, one-two-three, always with the right foot first, a teabag steeped in superstition and perched on the edge of bitterness. my mother, my muse - i vow to wear my bruised knees and bright colors proudly like she taught me, swim in the midnight gulf of my dreams, hold my heart in my hands and let beams of sunlight shine through the cracks. for now i make her orange-scented scones, drizzle them in a sticky-sweet glaze of all the things i am unsure of how to say - thank you, i’m sorry, i love you. 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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