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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 trembling hands pick up the phone, A game of roulette in her tone, Will her sour grapes distress me? Or will her sweet nothings caress me? Those citrus words, I eat them up.
Like fresh squeezed lemons in a broken cup, First sweet, then bitter, a toxic mess, But I crave them daily, nonetheless. Each encounter’s like an eggshell walk, But I can’t get enough of her sweet talk, She’s a siren, luring me ashore, Yet each saudade sentence makes me want her more, She’s the thunderstorms to my sunny days, But I keep returning anyways, Her citrus words, such a sour way, To confess her love through disarray, A reckless serenade, a conflicted feeling, Like a good book on a stormy evening, Perhaps I can withstand the rain, If I hear your bittersweet voice again. Comments are closed.
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October 2023
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