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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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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 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 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, 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 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 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, jasmine tucked behind your right ear, kohl carved under your eyes, your whisper is song; & & & if your mouth is a harmonica, let me make music, thunder as we bathe in moonlight, under the ocean of purplish stars who will gaze at us, cheeks rouged the boat I made did not take all night but I folded and taped as I licked my paper cuts my eyes propped open with pins and when it floated in the pond my stomach capsized upon itself watching it float idly along behind the others This is a letter for the broken soldier, The shattered man who’s lost his mooring post, He walks with heavy steps among company who fractured with him, Nurses wounds that go deeper than skin, deeper than flesh, Trigger Warning: Mention of Suicide What is the weight of a body When depression is the anchor holding A boy from laughter ? It’s been two years now & a post on Facebook Reminds me of you—a girl i. verdigris festers on the cleft // mossy spiderwebs spiral from the orifice blood rusts the hook // iron corrodes the tarnished silver withered skin peels into fractals // drought disfigures my complexion Cloudy sunlight absorbs me. My soul. My thoughts melt into puddles on my pillow. Clothes curl in the corners of my room. |
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January 2024
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