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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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![]() it all begins in the crook of my elbow – this storm brews on, flaring, its chest pulsating with fallen stars that seem to be on a silvery fire the clouds are thick their black threads heavy with sharp, glassy rain that blooms on my cheeks like unsuitable, wayward flowers that know not where to go and then, the roaring begins
somewhere in the deeper corner of this thing called the heart the roaring, which is – an interwoven tapestry of shrieks and squeals where every shriek is a thread that has a color where every squeal also has a shade and finally, this roaring clambers upon the mist-crusted platform of my eyelids and morphs into this thing called a tear and then, the heaving begins cold, black fists pummeling – the overwhelming flash of sharp silver and yet, the pushing and punching behind this thing called the chest finally, the storm recedes leaving behind the scent of an unwanted freshness and scars – broken, partially and some bruises that were tossed away by the raging winds thrown away just a little away from where they were told to be clambering through this thing called pain 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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