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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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![]() [Content warning: implicit sexual content and alcohol] My teeth tear flesh from flesh, exposing bloody veins untouched by flame and my blade-like bones serrated as a hound’s. And with every sound, I fear you believe that a monstrous grin will emerge from within me and my snarling voice might whisper across the table, “All the better to eat you with.” But a hound
has neither the hair that tangles with the slime and grit in its mouth nor the fingers that pluck those fibers from between its lips. A hound does not fear its shape in the mirror the next morning or the way its belly swells when it has eaten or the way that it will scrutinize every scrap it has consumed until it must pick and pick at its own skin to drown out the guilt of being alive. So with you, I choose the smallest fork like I’m picking flowers for my funeral bouquet and a plate fragile enough to shatter beneath the weight of your gaze. With you, every ounce is a burden, another crown of thorns growing from my skull. My cross is every empty plate, each a pyre of guilt waiting to be lit by my own hands. My final words uttered before every first bite: “All the better to eat with you. Amen.” Comments are closed.
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September 2023
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