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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: self-harm and suicidal ideation] this morning my dad caught me beating on myself fist trampolining off too-fat thigh
i could feel his gaze scoffing my heart to my stomach & he preened me to the floor but only brittled away the vellichor of my room; no calloused fingers snugged round my own because men don't cry, which must mean men don't die either- not at our own hands anyway: the boulder doesn't divert itself the lion is no cannibal- that's how he taught me to talk: kamikaze conversations like a predator mauling a herd, jawing through awkwardness and spitting it out all red- but even lions have their prides to walk beside and i'll have enough pride that i, I needn't rag nor drag everyone down, wash them away like spilled salt to levitate my chest-my chest never even heaves because men don't cry- but die? that, we will fall forward to do. Comments are closed.
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May 2023
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