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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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![]() I close my eyes and rock my head but my closet, if it were a glass ceiling barely ever low lying would only provide a dent on the sideboard bed the scorching grounds at recess hiked up skirts and muddy fingers you look at me and drag me by the arm like a maverick claiming abandoned luggage at last minute lingering meals
you, me - we can take over an entire city only if my closet was a trojan horse. wooded hollow confines churning outrage in the stomach of the equus but the ruse de guerre is against me plotted by my own the home the classroom the neighbour's bbq gender and sexuality on the countertop mixed and missed for a jägerbomb. I slurp a sweet drink to shut up the slur up of the soft I adorn in places of stern disposition, their practiced eyes. from the corner I see you push the chewed up straw down pull me to the other end of the house if my closet were the unrequited wardrobe to narnia, I'd let you be my overenthusiastic guide. we'd skip the pretentious turkish delights and I'd hold your hand tight. kiss your forehead in Mr. Tumnus's burrow as we see the fire figures dance to his folklore. but the girth of unspoken words grow their finger-thin stems turn brown and prickly as they twist the insides of my gut all night I cramp out on the floor from the realisation of an unrealised dream. like the milk in an empty carton box in an empty attic of an empty house it makes much noise. 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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