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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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 [Content warning: allusions to sexual assault]
and by july, i grew tired of beautiful boys. hearing their delicate sonnets and toying with their maple hair. so it was no surprise when i caught myself grinning at the girl who dove into lake erie, beaming as i pulled the soaked sweater over the top of her head, and laughing when i cut my finger wringing it.  The woods are bare
cleaved of tangerine, apricot, clementine, pomegranate leaves falling on already fallen leaves versicolor in the dirt  No need for pursed lips,
A bubbled throat, And eyelids held wide. Break down the dam, And let your tears flow. No need for feigned smiles, And years of practiced guiles.  Is there no strength in the art of delicacy? No shame when we walked away from my home, earth, foundation, and core with our bags packed and hands held so closely that our hope transpired. They say summer’s cruel compared to winter’s brutality, so spring must have been mercy and autumn erratic. All that is left is to fall from the chains of grace and honor. Screams that speak of and yet conceal cries and wallow at how love drove us to our ends. Did it? Your words. My heart. My words. Your heart. Crack. Layered crack. Combust. We know so little of it.
 I went to see the winter sky at night.
I was in the hills, and the wind blew ferociously. The stars looked so bright, my eyes- They could almost see me in that light. I was so dead when I was in the hills that night, I couldn’t feel anything except for cold numbness in January. I slithered out lies When they asked if I was doing alright.  The bitter aftertaste burns my tongue
Empty cups line the sides of my prison Eyes burn with rejection, As the dirty red scars into The page of my worth “You aren’t doing enough” I’m trying my best  for the Philippines
Mother lies awake in the shallows, hair of sea foam whispering around her limbs of islands and thinning streams. The coasts of her figure grow a glut of green on every mountainside, out of sight from the capital buried in her left lung; entombed in the tessellation of her highway skeleton.  In July, the pool overflows & the tree loses
its limbs. the garden gathering a glut of dragonflies & freesias. floodwater staining the asphalt all black. With the summer light fading, we chase shooting stars in the last quarter of the highway. the sky burning shade of tongues running over teeth. the route winding every way south. Highway winds spin me ‘round  [Content Warning: self-harm]
Looking in the mirror, Anna stared at the reflection, a reflection that wasn't hers. It couldn't be her. At least, it wasn't a version of herself that she recognized or cared about. And honestly, she wasn't really staring at the person across from her. She was staring at everything she was insecure about. Her eyes traced up and around every bump, every freckle, every hair and nail, and scar. She spends her days trying to imagine herself as someone else, someone more attractive or more appealing to look at. She tries not to dwell on the things she hates, but sometimes she slips. Today was one of those days.  stereotypically asian i
will never be like the part-timers at harvard who are part-time entrepreneurs d1 soccer players scientific researchers and award-winning artists only sometimes loving math i  Occasionally,
there will be a time or place, the oddity of a day. that twists and ties the cords within me; leaves me with this unseemly mass of contradictory nonsense–  [Content Warning: mention of drug use and implied motor injury/death]
When the hitchhiker opened my car door, her eyes were like an animal’s, fearful and wild, darting every which way like she expected something to jump out at her. She clicked the seatbelt closed with bitten-down fingernails. “Go,” she whispered. I did. It occurred to me right then that I was probably making a terrible mistake, but she didn’t seem dangerous, not yet. We were in the backwoods of Tennessee, and the road wove in and out of thick tangles of trees. Sometimes a cliffside would slink out of the woods and catch me unawares. I’d grip my steering wheel hard and my heart would pound in my ears as loudly as one would expect driving parallel to certain death. this porch is made of dirt on the edge of a parking lot and the edge of a forest. i can touch the air as i walk through it, so sticky it is with humidity. grown-ups mill about, even stickier in their sweaty running clothes. their tanks cling to their beer bellies and their shorts can’t hide saggy skin and stretch marks. i don’t feel like looking up to see their faces; they must be aliens; they must be new neighbors.
i wade until i find an ice chest that is finally my size, with soda cans that fit me instead of waterbottles filled with wine that slip out of my grasp. the adults bring dogs. the dogs look me in the eye when they speak to me, shaking coats that get me wet and thumping their tails against my thigh. but even these dogs will look up to the adults for instruction. i pet them and laugh because their owner is watching, and when the pair walks away i rub my slobbery hands on my shorts.  Fossils,
Ancient records of once-cradled bone, A mineral memory deposit transposed, Had I formed such a sacrificial stone, Or the wild animals put to the altar?  She arrives in Gu-Banpo after six months to find the lights
Off on all three floors, red X marks, and “Vacant” stickers Clambered across every store–a leech sucking the life of The Barren Street That she passes by for one last time, trying to explore.  [Content warning: implicit sexual content and alcohol]
My teeth tear flesh from flesh, exposing bloody veins untouched by flame and my blade-like bones serrated as a hound’s. And with every sound, I fear you believe that a monstrous grin will emerge from within me and my snarling voice might whisper across the table, “All the better to eat you with.”  How often do I wonder what’s the hook of the song?
Am I being tone deaf, or the picture is painted too stout Along the outskirts- very unsettling. Like when I draw parallels Between ‘see’ and ‘listen’, but so is with your song And this bottom shelf racked with cassettes, swathed in dust And rust cutting fine figures like your voice on summer afternoons.  Let’s pretend we’re sleeping on the ship’s deck
chairs. We whisper, and imagine the evening growing colder. Above those tangerine cliffs in the distance, kissed to their heady blush by the sun, were clouds moving in shoals.  [Content warning: implicit sexual content and alcohol]
It’s an oldie, you say, oldie of oldies. You don’t wait for him to respond, just put the vinyl on the turntable, run a hand through your hair before you turn to look at him. Dim moonlight shines into your basement, illuminates drifting dust. The air is so thick and hot it’s suspended there, sparkling like sweat. You’re nervous. You’re not ready and you’re soft--and keenly aware of it. He’s leaning on a wooden bookshelf that wobbles and you want to tell him to stop in case it falls but you won’t, or can’t. No one saw us, did they, you say, and your words waver between a question and a statement. He shakes his head, gives the basement another once-over. You hope desperately it’s not too messy, too clean, too fancy.  There is a fear of never doing worthwhile
It scurries over weeds on old railroad tracks And it lies in drips and drops and splatters on newspaper stacks There is a fear that wafts in small fragments against dark alleyways And bridges, cracked and caked with rust It peeks its small maw through desires bathed in dust It grows like black ivy through shriek graffitied-halls And trickles merrily down the surface of aching limestones walls It slips down old concrete pillars and pools underneath shadows It swarms in fitful storms of silence through cracked brown paper covered windows  Mint green walls enfold her, dripping slowly with
Saccharine summer sweat. She feels Her mind pouring out of her ears, but clogged like Chlorine-heavy pool water that dwells past Its welcome. She welcomes nothing within These walls because no one is outside  They ask me what I believe in. I tell them nothing.
My backpack is filled with haphazard sheets of paper. It hits the ground like it’s filled with bricks. Or a dead body. I live between shades of white A metaphorical waiting room, I curse my age I should be more happy by now  [Content warning: Body imagery]
in the night you can’t tell, ‘is that noise a cat yelping or an unborn child?’ she likes to keep it hush to not wake the others. |
