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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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![]() He stands, back to the wall as the automobiles drag themselves through the rain (he's always wanted to ride in one, hear the rain click and bounce off the metal roof rather than soaking silently through his father's hat) headlights scaring the fog away billowing smoke that follows them like hounds on the trail. The boy next to him crumples,
coughing up his first cigarette. Behind him there was laughter and music and drink the paperback boys took girls by the hand and her voice gliding on a catgut string through the walls. Don't sing him a lullaby tonight, for he fears even sleep will deny him. His hands are white with cold. Watch him now, crouching to unravel his coat like Penelope. He falls in love with the pipes once again. For she was ripples of gingham and the final flicker of an oil lamp before bed and ink as it pooled on the floor and crabapples in winter and bitter liquor and the pomegranate he'd bought at the port (he promised to bring one home to her, for so had his father to his mother before) that slipped from his hands and spilled seeds like blood, like eyes, like a plague onto his bare feet. 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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