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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: eating disorder] i’ve emerged into the town you might call death, of cold and austere aspect: the clapboard houses sewn in rows of needling teeth. there is no excess here except the acrid second scents of cookies, second cake returning from sojourn inside this animal of an overbalanced body, a worthless, grunting ballast. frost creeps inside the bluebells—
snow fills the waiting throat— a great red chanticleer struts and brags and keels, my acids boil and froth— michael says that all of this is merely self-constitution, the sculptor carving himself out of marble. i disagree; i’ve committed to nothing but simple purification of the flesh— hear me out: hating this house of mine, yes, but at once expelling the dusty hoarded bric-a-brac into the cold, nearly feeling the roils of disrupted dust- and that which you’d so feared, an empty dwelling, becomes a friend uncaring of the world, where you could decay inside. if you must know, there is a difference between decay and vomit— the space between incipient and final stages of tuberculosis. every path winds to here, the town of death and roads of death and rivers death as well- all hollows, all wastings, nothing not deprivation. i was out of ivory and narcissus petals and frozen sculpture— i was in the town of death. Comments are closed.
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November 2023
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