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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. My dad teaches me to be a rock in the sea of ravenous scissors. but paper rises as quickly as the lemon sun and dad, papercuts hurt. ii.
skin tangled on skin is an experience I can’t tear off like an old Band-aid so I sip tea laced with defiance. I train my fingers to spin gold from rock sediments but I’m a poser; I’m no Rumpelstiltskin. useless tickles my ears from my father’s lips. iii. What am I to become? Everyone seems to color in their blueprints with baby blue, but mine’s in black and white. I hope their blue bleeds into my tomorrow. If not, I’ll dab my paintbrush to steal their watercolor. No, I mustn’t, but my fingers are trained to fidget at the sign of success. iv. I slip on things as obvious as banana peels just like in the cartoons for a couple of cheap laughs. A defense mechanism, I know, but I’m never satisfied. piece by piece, I feel myself disappear into the addiction of attention, drunk on gasoline. But I know my drug of choice will always be cortisol. Sobriety — a creation myth untold. Comments are closed.
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September 2023
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