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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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![]() She came over for the first time in the dead of winter. When I turned my hair dryer on hot and high in anticipation (of my expectations) (of her expectations), the lights shut off. I muttered a prayer to Eve, will femininity always make a fool out of me? I painted my face in shimmering shades of pink and waited in the cold. I’ve always been wary
of candles— I don’t like the matches and their sensitive centers of gravity. Tip ‘em too far down and the flame crawls, up and up, to nip at your fingertips. She knocked and I apologized for the midnight state of things. Her laugh induced a red rose blush and we played cards in the shade on my bedroom floor. Before the sunlight left for good, I watched it paint her in holy light. She focused down, searching for a king, and I worshiped her from across the deck. That night she left a note folded in my hand (learn to light a candle, i’ll see you soon). My lights stayed off for two more weeks, so I took her advice and singed my skin. We kept embers alive through January, February, then burned out soon after. I only looked when she wasn’t. She never looked at all. Still, once I wash the ashes and bitterness away, there are lessons learned. From the pyre, a message: Thank you. I’m not afraid of matches anymore— I light my little fires everywhere, candles perched on all my cabinet tops. Every night, vigils are held for one-sided devotion. My life smells smoky, with pine, vanilla, and fresh linen floating underneath. I take your note and dip it in, watch it curl and blacken and leave. Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
November 2023
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