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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 last of the light sends tremors through my veins,
sends tremors through the sea I once called my temple. then it fades altogether in a tired burst of serotonin. I feel my tears feeding the growing moon, but I am too tired to wonder what it will give me in return. is the night not cold, I want to ask the ghost standing beside me-- —or can you not feel it? sometimes I feel the sun nibbling at my ankles-- like invisible fish, attracted to an unknown force in my silhouette. let’s call it gravity, reminiscing the days when laws still held true. let’s call it gravity, and pretend that the time we defied it was just a fever dream. I hear the ghost hands churning the sky tick tock, tick tock, until it falls to the ground in wisps, transcending divinity. it is rather poetic how light and serotonin exist, but only in wishbones lost to the rising tide. no, it is not poetic; it is the lack of poetry. 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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