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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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![]() Every inch of me wants to twist out of the hold these pretty walls have. They appear like a dainty prison cell made to lock in all the ineffable thoughts that now threaten to spill out of my pores. I usually prefer to braid
my ink-stained fingers into a delicate crown atop my temple, adorned with the stars I keep hidden in a jar under my bed, than step on the daisies growing in the cracks of the pavement. It is something about tear-stained notebooks and zodiac signs and secret smiles that makes me feel, more than anything, my ink streaked fingerprints are insignificant. The walls press further in and the upturned bottle of dark blue stains my little leather book invariably, while my skin aches for pine scented candles and lavender smells and illicit moonlit meadows. And my heart dances out of my chest till it has bled itself out to the world. And the night stands quiet witness never a whisper heard. 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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