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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 mom tells me of ancestors who blister & burn: blazing glory then charcoal corpses collapsed under dirt and soil, under torn and sewn roots like stiches in skin, under memories soaked into the ground through eons of rain and blood. In this land,
count The Celts. The Picts. The Romans. The Queens and Kings and bastard monarchs. (Royalty speaks with high viscosity, words dragging through time long after they're gone.) Count the Vikings and farmers and artists, count the notches in the hierarchy that pressed against their throats until they only knew how to breathe in deference. *** eruption on Red Hills on the Isle of Sky: fifty-six million years ago lava and steam shot into sky (I tell you: they danced), entire world raised one & two / three & four / five & six / seven & eight – eight degrees. Now, the slightest increase sends wildfires licking up land, snuffling baby cries faster than a pacifier. hundred eighteen degrees, human skin burns. hundred sixty-two, human skin shreds like ribbons and melts. when the flames dance, they are in the thousands. we blister & burn. *** When the Scottish died, they were buried in chambered cairns. Without individuality, communities dispose together. Same bacteria breaking bodies, same beetles gnawing holes, same worms finding homes in the coils of intestines, moving between bodies like neighboring bungalows. When clans went to war, soldiers placed stones in a pile. Survivors reclaim theirs, the rest built into memorial cairns atop the tombs. Cuiridh mi clach air do chàrn, "I'll put a stone on your stone.” But beneath the stones, we blister & burn. 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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