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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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 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. |
