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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 interior appears oddly bright, and so blue -- a perfect color for the innocent fish circling, blissful, along the walls, unaware that they’re already trapped. Directly across from the entrance rests a bed. Firm foam padding for easy sanitation, rubber straps along the sides, a pull-out stool at the base -- the sort tiny legs can never resist, climbing high onto the bed. The bed is so close to the door --so near the closest
thing to an air hole in this shoebox of a room -- and yet always just too far away. The scents of past procedures loiter, permeate, overwhelming the senses. Though far from the only odors to outlive the room’s past occupants: isopropyl, adhesive remover, and the “scentless” cleaner that seems to exist everywhere and nowhere at once in places like this are, invariably, what sticks. A heady mix, one that follows and haunts for hours after. One of the many ghosts of this place; the remnant of a poisonous plant, tangling its roots too deeply around the sinuses to be weeded out. Cabinets line the far side of the room. A sink is carved into the top on one end, while an endless counter stretches all the way down to the other; a safe place to rest all of the tools that one might need, away from searching little fingers. A single rolling stool is all that remains; its wheels are locked up tight as the door, tight as the chests of those who pass through. Sleek, grey, unfeeling leather stares back from where it’s been left in the center of the room, completely unblemished and unaffected by any pain its rolling around may bring. Comments are closed.
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* = Editors' Choice work
Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
May 2023
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