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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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![]() The sky is cherry-blossom pink today and I'm a prisoner loose in the swatches of heaven with my crimson shoes and temporarily dressed wounds--me and my borrowed happiness / My pesky self singing as if the wind is a gentle gale and it's singing along with me / As if I've escaped and I'm never going back again. And I thought growing up is like that. Perennial and
gruesome. When holding hands is more than just a gesture of affection and when love is a longing and nothing else like a fish bone scratch at the back of your throat. An ache that you long for to stay. Leave a trace, a spot, a fleck, you say. Leave me a stain. And I thought growing up is like that. Perennial and gruesome. The sky is your crooked smile today. It's a blessing, I say echoing my mother. I'm chained to myself in a crowded room and today I'm malleable and pliant. You squeeze my hand for comfort and you leave me a bruise-- It's a chess game and I'm killing off myself piece by piece. Chained to myself in a crowded room And I thought growing up is like that--exhilarating and breathless-- suffocating. It's raining outside--look at the plastic flowers blossoming and sinning and dancing--mocking me, tongue tied. It's raining outside--and oh look at me praying for it to turn into a thunderstorm. Dear God, bury me with my envy. And believe me when I say--I thought growing up is like that--envious and remorseless. So tomorrow I'll be a maniac, a feral--a prisoner loose in the swathes of heaven. Me and my crimson shoes--I'm a prisoner loose. Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
May 2023
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