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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 durian aged into a custard hue, the color of my skin the color of the heritage that I rejected on my flesh. Within the house of ochre seeds, I was surrounded by a chamber of white. I grew up wishing the blonde on my skin was my hair I grew up bleaching the culture in my blood I grew up biting down on my mother tongue. Why am I just a seedling? To paint a canvas full of privilege and wrong answers, why do I have to be the white chamber? Not all durians come in a plastic wrapping, some spines are honing its own claw, some carry a greater weight, Reckon that durians comes in a variety, people still box it into the same old packages. Reckon that I too have my own variety, people still box it into plastics, thinking I’d eat my durians with chopsticks. *臭死了(Chòu sǐle): its terribly stinky Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
November 2023
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