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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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![]() When her ears are roughened like processed flax, she goes away on her annual trip - the one no one speaks of. Along the cobblestone paths driving from home are small cavities, of water from the dry storms.
She has everything she needs: a pole man, two painted boys, a silk house which all creases have ironed out. Sometimes he drives in the rented SUV, or rides a bike with chains, and the lead within her blood begins to siphon away like how a vacuum picks up both dust balls and pearls in a jute rug. She likes how her toned man treats her like gold and how unkempt the lawn looks when she returns; she doesn’t mention how the SUV started to rot from the inside, or how the chains on the bike begins to constrict her legs, pieces of grey flesh floating in the air. 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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