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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 brain is a slaughterhouse, home of a monomaniac serial killer and i am made of a destiny to sing elegies for the souls of words lost within its crevices. i tally the deceased with a weighing scale-- the days left that my name can still be tolerably defined as “human”. my head weighs lighter now; my mother says i don’t trip anymore.
says she’s proud of me for finally acknowledging her in finding tranquility. says she’s glad she sold her vehement daughter for a doll. i remember the day she abdicated my guardianship over my mind to the reaper. the crescent moon on her face has never smelled so syrupy it sliced through the striations of my heart and left the pieces putrefying into a cavity behind my ribs. my four limbs are bound by shackles in a glass cube in the theatre beneath my skin. the same playscript etches in my tongue--its words unconsciously percolate through my screams. each night as i mouth, the reaper treads past the boundless cemetery of my brain, countless dusks fade as i waste myself witnessing the rusted scythe harvest my emotions, flicking up the cadavers with unfathomable rancour. i sign peace treaties with myself to prevent any other bullet of thought from firing through sutured walls while the reaper executes traitors like water eroding sand castles. coerced elegies sound no different from white noise. 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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