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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 wish I knew how to capture the feeling of afternoon sun warming the skin of my bare shoulders and the taste of birthday cake and ice cream as children ran under foot, dragging red balloons behind them. I wish I could grasp happiness like a firefly, and preserve it as a flower in these pages. Instead, I am a taxidermist.
Let me tell you the way, roots planted themselves inside of you and spread like rot as they curled around your organs A gentle embrace -- like a chokehold. Do you remember the way they leached life out of you, until all that was left was dust? I do. We write what we know, or maybe to figure out what that is exactly. We write the stories buried deep in our bones, etched upon the inner workings of our ribcage. We write love poems as children, because we so desperately wish to encapsulate being loved. It’s funny how grief can feel like love. I know the curve of her hips and the tenderness of slender fingers, hooking themselves into my belt loop. I know there is a freckle on the back of those hands that is really two freckles side-by-side, making a singular venn diagram, on the place where her thumb meets her wrist. I know the sound of her high pitched laugh and the lullaby her mother used to sing on nights where rain sunk into the dirt and the sky screamed. It's an intimate sort of knowing. Like a lover. Like a sin. Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
October 2023
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