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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. stark white marble walls stare back at me blankly the paint’s peeling off and is crumbling down (it settles in the corners). the air smells of faith. beads of sweat line my forehead (i wipe them away with the back of my hand) and happy tears line my mother’s dark eyelashes. (she doesn’t wipe them away) a group of lonely kids (choir, matthew, kaw-yer)
stumble on the stage and clear their throats my mother clutches the silver cross hanging around her neck with her sweaty, chubby fingers and stands up (in respect, matthew, in respect) and i follow- (i don’t have a cross, so i dig my nails in my sweaty palms instead) the children sing in their singing voices and i mumble the gospel truth with them. i see sideways and there he is his tall, gorgeous body well-oiled, bathed in ambrosia jesus and he smiles at me a gentle smile; i smile back. and then he vanishes. the truth ends (amen, amen) and i loosen the tie around my neck. i turn to walk out and mother says- ‘there’s God in the air, matthew’ and so i inhale Him (deep breaths, deep breaths, inhale the truth) like cigarette smoke. there’s God in the air. ii. everything’s a happy blur- (not really) pieces of colourful paper dissolve under my tongue and melt into my saliva like gold. i’m falling and i can’t even feel it- (maybe i can, i’m not sure) i prick myself with disposable syringes and ancient humiliations. there’s something at the back of my head, it’s plunging me into the dark (no no no i don’t want to go) and there’s a tiny stage with tiny kids (choir, matthew, kaw-yer) but swoosh i’m back, i see spots spots spots (redgreenblue) like the polka dots on my mother’s blue dress i loved no no no i don’t wanna go back (i go anyway) swoosh and i see grass plush (it is spring in the meadow) and there’s my mother in her blue polka dots dress (the one i loved) sitting on a picnic mat with packets of bread and- (matthew, here’s your sandwich) and i’m running running running to her and then the taste of tomatoes explodes in my mouth and swoosh i’m back but the tomatoes didn’t they stayed with my beautiful mother in the spring-hit meadow and left me the taste of redblack blood. (or was it tomatoes? i’m not sure) i feel tears trickle down my cheek trickle trickle trickle i close my eyes and pray (what else can i do?) the truth ends (amen, amen) and i inhale (there’s God in the air, matthew) Him like cigarette smoke but all i smell is sickly liquids in plastic bottles- (is there God in the air, mother? if He is, why doesn’t he help me mother?) i see sideways and there he is he sees me with drooping eyelids dark holes beneath his eyes, and rotting skin jesus-shaped monstrosity smoking joints with me he looks at me with a resigned glumness; i glumly look back. and then he vanishes. and then i’m standing up (or am i? i’m not sure; i’m trying atleast) but i c a n ′ t. and i fall back. there might be God in the air. iii. ice cold ice cold water hits my neck and the hair on my neck stands up (in respect, matthew, in respect) and i’m drowning drowning drowning in my own head and i hold the bathroom door for support (but i’ve already fallen). and my head is spinning spinning spinning i look at the holes on my arm (where injections have punctured me) and there’s a memory in my stomach and i puke it out along with the vomit. the lights flicker (or do they?) and i fall down face-up face-up and something bursts in my head. i feel warm blood creeping down my neck but i can’t do anything about it (or can i? no you most certainly can not, matthew) ice cold ice cold water mixes with warm sicksweet blood and i see myself die from above. i see sideways and there he is in all his trivial glory matthew. i smile at him a sad smile. he smiles a sad smile back. gently. intimately. there is no God in the air. only my crumbling faith. Comments are closed.
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September 2023
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