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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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i am a drowning fish. I know this as soon as I step out into the light one moon glinting off the sun, the other reflecting its heat The Night Children Beware the Night Children small bodies that clatter and clang through the streets, the Night Children are made from the metal they burned in shh
don’t speak fingers tainted with moonlight spread over lips hair like sunlight on rippling waves shorn like a sheep’s, sold before the remnants stain red Drip drop. Plink. Splish Splash. The sink is leaking again. Again? But we only fixed it a while ago. Was it not just a little while ago? I don’t remember. Inspired by Frank Bidard’s “I CARE IF I AM GUILTY” What is wrongdoing but the conscience of others? Why can human beings not agree on its definition; Why must it be left vague? If I ask what is wrongdoing, you will tell me dishonest Centuries of travel taught me countless lessons, the most important of which I shall pass on to you today. Encounters with dangerous landforms and deceiving aliens convinced me that one—and only one—sense was trustworthy. Even on Earth, water appears to bend an otherwise healthy straw, a nonexistent person always seems to knock on my door, the sweetest chocolate leaves the bitterest aftertaste on my tongue, and I can smell the salty ocean from the middle of a desert. Perhaps these illusions seem insignificant in comparison to the world—something interesting to acknowledge but nothing worth worrying over. I understand if that is what you believe. After all, distrusting the senses you have relied upon throughout your life would be stupidity. But the truth is that you could not be more wrong. You, an infant in the universe’s eyes, are adorably innocent and ignorant, and your life is limited by the world you live in. Let’s journey to another world. It's 6:10 PM Same as yesterday I'm by the counter Broken bowls at my feet Watching you cook dinner for two By the same carbon monoxide oven again Chopping vegetables day after day fling themselves off the way; the particles of sand coalesce at the bottom of the scuffed red timer. and i, Lullaby of birdland, that’s what I always hear When you sigh Never in my wordland Could there ways to reveal In a phrase, how I feel. somewhere in the ruckus of the traincar through the crowds and stained floors i must have gotten tangled the strings of my conscience knotted in the webs of remembrance slowly pulling me back into the station TW: abuse, mentions of self-harm
Pulsing in the tiny capsule of my mind is the tempo of rattan sticks my limbs are chiselled with, an intrinsic rhythm engraved into titanium bones, ever-recurring—even when you say you’ve changed. ma(1), I don’t believe you. 2020: “How much you get for maths?” I knew it wasn’t going to end well, not at all. “85.” I used to think, if dreams did come (true) I’d want to be with a girl before I died. Well, shit, I got what I wanted, got a girl and kinda died just after. the teabag hangs bloated in its own bloodsoup / tries to sink as an insect does / trapped in amber / or as I do / smothered The wind whips through my hair asI Swing under weeping trees – alone except For sparrows waltzing in the grass. Here, Beneath an opaque sky, I hear. start by pulling the threads tactfully unravel the words until syllables are sharp and pierce your rib cage until your heart is wet and spills crimson memorize them I don’t know what it was that made me stick my hand through the car’s window. Drenched in sweat, sizzling sidewalks were halting to a cooling point now that nightfall was returning. I stretched my hand further out as we drove past a grass field. I could touch the air and cradle my emotions for once. The sky was clementine orange, and the moon was returning home from its day-long journey. My hair was carelessly fluttering in the wind, and I could feel my forgotten love for Summer seep back into my splintered bones. I realized that I had been unconsciously smiling towards the sunset. history is the dailiness of weapons prescribed upon our bodies. it is, and all at once, a cleaver wedged in the funny bones of secretaries, that is, a meat thermometer defacing the frozen cheese pizzas on which we sacrifice our metaphors for contemporary sin. My mother is a woman, One who enchants the wind with a golden tongue, twisting blasphemous words and hymns from lands far from me, One whose back is whipped raw and harsh by blue fires fueled by endless rainfall, One whose womanhood contradicts her role as mother. Crooked, quivering fingers, Dipped in glittering gold. Lick the iron dust from silver-painted nails. Plucking novas from the night sky like ripe apples, Impossibly frigid, cradled in the calloused white palms. TW: mental health & self-harm “My hair was kept so short, combed flat when wet. I never knew my hair was wavy until I was nearly twenty-two and never went outside with wet and uncombed hair until I was twenty-eight.” -Kazim Ali, “Home” Trigger warning for panic attacks. all i know is the pressure of the monstrous mountain as it crushes my chest, grinding against my lungs, chipping away at the air in my throat until all i can feel is debris, sinking into my skin, TW: death and grief, obsessive-compulsive disorder Sometime during my sophomore year of high school, in the middle of one of our increasingly frequent fights, my mom said, “I lost my mother to fear; I won’t lose you too.” My father took it a step further. “Think about Grandma Mary,” he said. Then, “And look what happened to Grandma Barb.” |
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January 2024
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