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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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 imaginary trains,
the clack of the tracks like fingers picking at guitar strings. “i’ve been everywhere,” is a promise and a vow, a tale for every star and trail.  There’s a framed drawing on my desk
which my sister drew in the fall of 2017, in our old Samik apartment. In the drawing, my brother and I look at the sky, our muddy hands on the sand castle we were building.  She was born from the ocean on which she lived and was raised by the winds that breathed life into her. Adelaide, the girl with hair of fire, spent her days dancing along the cliffs above the waves with her face buried in the story of another world. Her feet were molded to the outline of the rocks, perfectly gripping the earth as she followed the path to the cave by the beach, which was, in a weird way, her home. Over time, she had accumulated pillows and blankets to make a bed on the sand and had gathered every book she could get her hands on and stacked them, in alphabetical order, along the damp rock wall.
 We were nineteen throwing pennies into pools thinking that youth could deliver wishes to reality
Dinner dates seemed like a classic, but two strangers can hardly pass it Park benches and plastic cups filled with ice cream is where we landed in the floral air And I knew the date was over, felt the static taking over Till my waning eyes were captured by yours, and lassitude left my shoulders Because the spark in your eye told me that this night would end in magic  10:17 PM
I wear ripped jeans, cuffed at the ankles, that sway with each step along these glossed linoleum floors.  You sigh as you hop into your bed, and think about how, after a long day of Zoom classes, you have to stare at your computer screen some more as you write college essays. On top of homework, chores, and other responsibilities at home, you also have to figure out how to write 500 words about why you want to move from the temperate Bay Area to plow through six feet of snow to attend class at the University of Michigan. You want to just write, “Because I want a college education and I want to make money when I grow up,” but you know you can’t write that, because you’ve put in too many hours and you’re too close to the end to let your frustration show now.
 "The Ancestor" by Leonora Carrington and at that moment,
the beasts of His making clawed and stumbled out of the shadows pools of darkness bleeding into every inch of their eyes mouths upturned in a gruesome snarl, drops of saliva falling staggeredly from cracked lips tails dragging limply behind them, leaving trenches in the dampened soil sharpened talons bit into the earth, like they had a personal vendetta against mother nature or the earth upon which they stood or me  the leather shoes are sprawled outside
beside the poplars, cypresses, the yews shaded in the darkness with trees looming over like the grieving widows  Every nook glimpsed into
now brings unfiltered glee. Every day, the walls inch closer, the smell of nothing carries all with it. Summer storms fold like raw wool.  When her ears are roughened
like processed flax, she goes away on her annual trip - the one no one speaks of. Along the cobblestone paths driving from home are small cavities,  Along Lee Chapel Road
one still afternoon, rests a cemetery. St. Andrews Chapel overlooks the plane idling at the top of a grassy knoll. This winter, snow drifts from the sky  Soon, all the cherry blossom trees that bloom
in the spring will winnow away. The bushes filled with small fireflies will dim with the night and the silly children who used to catch them will turn into ghosts.  after Airea D. Matthews
in the garden or the ice rink, we had praised art and debated physics-- was it phase changes or pressure  [Content warning: eating disorders]
I had been staring at the yogurt for over an hour. The bowl was filled to the brim and sat a few inches in front of me on my desk. It was taunting me. I could imagine closing my eyes and sliding a heaping spoonful of that thick, cool, creamy yogurt onto my tongue. I giddily anticipated the way it would melt away in my mouth, slip down my throat, and land into my empty waiting belly; my stomach growled in anticipation. But my arms were paralyzed. I couldn’t lift my hand and reach for the spoon. There was an angry voice in my head louder than the quiet pleading of my empty stomach.  A half-finished crochet blanket lays on the floor, its frayed ends fully submerged in last night’s pasta alfredo. My dead pointe shoes (three months overdue for replacement) are strewn against the cheap faux-leather ottoman I bought on Amazon with a gift card from last Christmas. My friend, Alec, surveys the mess and laughs. ‘You have a hot girl LA apartment, you know,’ he says.
After a few internet searches, I find an article that describes the stereotype of women with messy bedrooms, taking selfies in a mirror, fully unaware of the hurricane behind them.  Salmon rays splash onto a canvas of vapor:
altostratus streaks roll along the horizon. They ride the foaming crests of the aether-- but under my camera lens, they still. The clouds blush for the LED screen.  It’s all a game now.
If you wake early in the morning, shut the door & measure the minutes before the coffee maker beeps. Count the beats between crashes, record the decibels of each crack. Divide by five & forget about miles; the eye is just inches away.  after Langston Hughes
I, too, am the future. a young adult, a blossoming person, a teenager that’s taking in the world day by day, gaining experience and living, learning the ways of life  Back here again.
Another day has gone by and I didn’t even realize. The water relaxes me, The steam like a blanket of comfort. Yet soon enough the panic sets in And I’m on the shower floor, Silently sobbing and gasping for air, Until I can regain myself And contain it once again.  After C.S. Lewis
Love anything and watch the bifurcated sword cleave its maker. Bury the child in algae. Ethanol shrinks from linoleum squares but the glass remains. Give away a covering of cotton. Fine teeth comb the ivy as blinds for a blank slate Ants chew on the spinal cord and no grass grows in a velvet cage. Hear the reeds petrify.  I greet friends with a smile, laugh
To convince them I’m okay; But then when alone, I plunge Into my usual dark hole Where images swarm, ridicule me Powerless to fight back.  Tell me you're home and talk to me, love
There are pieces of me shattered on the floor My eyes are scarlet, my skin paler And there's grief pounding on my door It's late I'm tired, on the brink of losing Either my hands Or my heart On the edge Of those cliffs  Dear mind,
why must you pour poison into my thoughts for I drink and drink until I am drunk on the pain addicted to it hoping it could wash away the world myself, along with it.  The crack in the pitcher—you will say
that you do not remember it, but I do. We both know that what you say, it isn’t true. If it was true you wouldn’t be able to look at it even if you tried to, but you do, you do.  The black bus paused,
Drifted at our back, As we walked home from school. The smooched tire On the tarred road -- Set our feet on the track, Towards the bush path. |
