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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/death] "i’m not allowed to have sharp things." does that explain anything. at all. maybe it does. maybe not. ghosts float down my throat
fill my lungs with dead whispers. of everything and nothing more, they ask me to speak. they are ghosts. they are quiet. they take less space than living do. (you let them in?) (i let them whisper.) (only whisper, nothing more.) i spoke with them too long listened to them now look. look, now. where i am. (stuck. between life. between death.) (i become ghosts.) (i fear myself.) they lock me in. dissect my jugular trachea esophagus steal my throat my teeth my tongue my breath. no more speaking, no more whispers. (i listen.) (i only listen.) (for i am nothing anymore.) and when the ghosts return when they take the sharp things i can’t have carve the walls of my voice out, steal what’s left, shape my silence for their ghastly words, i try to scream. it comes out a whisper. (nothing more.) Comments are closed.
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May 2023
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