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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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![]() last week, i sat on the curb between our two houses i lit a red and thought of you and summer and my brother’s crashed car and everything else that once lived right there where i sat. the air still tasted bitter, like the way you laugh,
my mouth was stuffed with one june and one storm and a few pulls of smoke my tongue could not flesh out the difference between them the days of you and me are dormant, but so endlessly there – benign tumors on the streets of what used to be our neighborhood. a crossroads here, now, birthed from the womb of your indifference. you, in the heat of summer, warm rain once webbed in your hair caught, soaking, candied or me, purple gums in the grip of winter flash, flashing over the screeching of a familiar tire you, long gone before my body slammed into the window me, standing still in the wake jeans loose, mouth open, gray tongue two figures connected still, though only by a vice Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
November 2023
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