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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: suicide ideation] talk to me, he says. the stars have shifted to form his soul, this purest essence imbued within bated bubbles that read typing . . . typing . . . (i am a black hole. i am imploding at my heart and my intestines feel all twisted, like my body is eating away at my strength as my mind erodes at my hope and the ocean tides wear at cliffs. i read somewhere that black holes have a sunken center, and i find autonomy within this disembodiment—do you feel kinship with the galaxy, have you ever dreamt about going still and turning to stone and returning to the stars?) but i do not say any of that. i cannot. he is much too impressive. and he could not possibly understand. we do not inhale stardust from the same lips. he could not possibly know. i am typing . . . okay, i say. perfect, succinct. about what? he is typing . . . i’m very concerned about you. what do you want to talk about? the words rise like a crescent tide, (i want to talk about dying—i want to describe the cries that ring in my ears alongside the cheery christmas radio jingles that leech off men’s gray matter—have you realized that those constant bell chimes sound like death knells, have you wondered about how easily those carolers could don all-black and chant for a freed soul? i want to talk about a possibility different than strangulation of the future, that ozone smoke that will choke us to death—the possibility that we might tarnish our bodies first and be left dangling in midair. i want to talk about the words that spill around my ears and slip down the drain of my throat, forcing themselves out of eyes squeezed under blankets at night. i want to know if you have learned how to quiet your mind. i want to know if you can stargaze without hearing the mockeries of heaven.) but i do not say any of that. the chaos is too much for me and surely for him, and floods my thoughts all at once. i am typing . . . i don’t know. i don’t have anything to say. he answers quickly. the little astral typing bubble does not pop up. that’s a lie. i know you well. i pause. he is mistaken. (but do you know me like i know life? have you, too, grown weary of me and my shortened phrases, hesitant prose, my failures in speech and text? my mind is drowning and my lungs are shriveled with saltwater; would you swallow this deluge with me?) but these chloroform words stick to my fingers and i do not respond. he is typing . . . so. . . talk to me. tell me about your day. well, i begin, i woke up. i got out of bed and tried to (write? no, too personal. none of my thoughts are fit to be written down. like a brief flashing of stars before they collapse for eternity—i, too, refuse to be constrained in perpetuity. i do not trust the world, with its plastic christmas smiles and blackened carbon lungs, to take care of my words once i am gone—which will be soon and of my own volition. i do not trust you. i am imploding still and i do not trust you.) he would not understand. i tried to sleep for longer, i say, but couldn’t. so i made tea. then i looked outside the window and watched the sunrise. it was nice. it was. is that it? i deleted instagram today. why is that? christmas ads. everyone was smiling, with their little red hats and presents. i didn’t understand why. and then i scrolled down and saw an infographic about the climate. it was performative but still had less likes than the christmas picture. so i turned off my phone and went to the kitchen to make more tea, but found that i still had some left from earlier. and the sun was still rising, which was still nice, but i didn’t feel much better. too much. but it feels nice now that i’ve started to speak, tentative hints of seawater coughed up between pursed lips. do you feel okay now? i can’t tell if he really cares. but we are made from the same materials, are we not? formed from the last vestiges of stars? not really. but it’s nice that you talk to me anyway. and the sunrise was nice too. even if i would never show him my mind, much less the world. today is going well, then? kind of. i do not say (no, my body feels empty. and the tea burns my tongue but my skin still feels so cold.) those murmurs gather in my fingertips and disperse before they reach the screen. but somehow he understands, with his round moon heart. oh. he is typing . . . i know there’s more that you are thinking. but it’s okay if you don’t trust me right now. but i am here. and i want you to be alive so we can be here together. last year someone he knew returned to the sky. and it is okay if you don’t want to live right now. just surviving is okay. you will survive. and maybe one day you can write about this-- when you feel better about it all. and you won’t have to hold in all of those thoughts for yourself. i am typing. . .
i stop, and look outside of the window again; i watch the tide crash against oceanside cliffs basking in the sun. i do not know what is right to say. i exhale, and watch a sliver of my soul populate the winter earth, one more sliver than before. tomorrow is christmas. perhaps tomorrow i will be gifted with acid words that bound up my intestines and pierce the back of my polluted throat like the sharp blinking of stars. perhaps tomorrow i will die. but perhaps tomorrow, i will watch the sunrise and drink warm tea. perhaps i will try to direct a few more thoughts away from my black hole mind and fail for a few less, just as the moon directs the tide. perhaps. Comments are closed.
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September 2023
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