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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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 I live a lasting life that’s split in two.
When queried if my birth was far away, I doubt if my identity is true. We visited midwestern lakes so blue In route to India for summer stay; I live a lasting life that’s split in two.  The sky is cherry-blossom pink today and I'm a prisoner
loose in the swatches of heaven with my crimson shoes and temporarily dressed wounds--me and my borrowed happiness / My pesky self singing as if the wind is a gentle gale and it's singing along with me / As if I've escaped and I'm never going back again.  i. stress
the boulder on a fragile leaf, the weight of a thousand worlds stacked on a butterfly wing.  Dishevelled low pony because an Ariana one hurt.
Eyes bald, though smoky with caffeine-sedated circles. “You’re not like the other girls,” I muttered by your ear, and we gagged, for we sounded like that couple.  Flamingo coral necks, svelte and tensiled.
Pink earpieces a salubrious pair of stethoscopes oscillating between the dense air and my chest. My palpitations reverberate the tunes unerringly; they rewind like a boomerang, always mellowed into docile decrescendos.  Heat the stove, and allow my blood to boil. I didn’t leave
so you killed me. When you let me in on your dirty secret, did you already picture the day you’d break my chin? The day you’d realise that no, Bonnie and Clyde died to be a mere ideal; |
