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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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![]() [Trigger Warning: sexual assault] it starts with the circuits, with the matchbox, with a hiss (your mother calls you a slut, makes fun of the straps on your tank-top and) roars the gears, spurs the engine. electric crackle as dust (he whistles when you walk, the curve made from hip bone & pigtails, born from cribs crawled out of bars and) settles. bit of oil alights a wheel, wipes a windshield, scrapes “you’re so mature” (and you like it. compliments sliding over bare breasts, luring in poor sheep. you are a shepherd and you asked for) off layers of grime, sleet, sunspots, hail. whatever weather they want (it, you like the attention. they never give you a second glance until skin stamps skin and) drive over the bridge, listen to clunk of manmade machine versus nature’s fallen (grant him your heart, show each aortic cavern full of warm, gushing blood. give him a pair of goggles and let him) take a wrong turn somewhere. reassure yourself the highway is only a few miles away and (takes an incisor, reveals a proboscis. bites into your exposed flesh, tearing away at the) brake malfunctions, running out of gas. breathe. just a few more miles and you’ll make (yells at you for your stomach rolls, then fucks you til you bleed. come back with flowers and find a girl in his bed who) tire pops, compressed air- naked, exposed. whooshwhoosh and veers off the road hoping (you sit on a box somewhere outside, telling yourself you’ll never be pretty enough or pretty again or pretty like the girls who stand up and fall down and) crash. Hannah Levin is a 14 year old from Tucson, Arizona. She currently attends Catalina Foothills High School and is an obsessive Lana Del Rey and Radiohead fan. She hopes to continue writing in the future.
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May 2023
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