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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: self-harm, suicidal thoughts, and references to emotional abuse] the concept is easy: my mother is a smoking gun, lying on the worlds she bought and kept, keeping her eyes steady on my slow climb down to her. when we talk, it is in jokes, little skittish things so that i can
see her insides. her sharp teeth. the round, heavenly shape of her skull. i don't miss her because i am going to her, everyday, pinching the end of a cigarette between my lips like she did, keeping my head over my breath. i learnt holding my life on the edge of a cliff at her knee. i learnt the tilt of her head, mapping the holes in my head with the skin around my eyes. what i will be is the memory of her, a skeleton shadow of brilliance. i go further below, like Virgil or an admirable pop idol, and think of the links of my spine as an instrument. the xylophone for mother's day, nerve endings ripped and mounted on bedroom walls near debate awards. who am i if not her? what am i if not a name attached to her name? being older has never been easy when she is so real, blinking impossibly down at my failures. the concept is easy: my mother is bones, and i mimic her. Comments are closed.
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September 2023
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