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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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![]() I once scraped symbols into my notebooks, discovered an oasis of divinity hidden within a mess of muddled text. I felt the shackles loosen as the words poured out. Mom cat dad hut rat. Look, see, I’m a writer. I scrawl poems into post-it notes when the teacher’s not looking, stanzas of a verse they’ll never
read. It’s embarrassing, almost, to turn in monotonous formations of half- formed thoughts and exhibit but the limitations of my creativity. Yet I turn to writing when it’s not asked of me, ignore assignments to string words together like linen on a clothesline. Its sweet release proclaims the deliberations I’ll never voice. Tongue-tied, spellbound by ink stains on paper. Sharp-edged shadows linger in the crevices of my bag - I don’t go anywhere without a book. Masterful alliteration, configuration, can we write more in English class? This talent is my haven. Blame it on a woman whose boots clicked when she strode, shoulders back, chin up. A piercing gaze that steadied mine when she taught me to hold the pen in my fingers and write. Loops and curls, dot the i. I wrote you a book, remember? 100 pages of unguarded ambiance. I was only 8. A supernatural world constructed out of nothing, hand you a novel thick as a dictionary. (Don’t mind absent punctuation, the borders thieving half the space.) Call it effort, love if you will. Spruce turned to pulp I would hold in my hands, let it ooze into the basin. Pulp to machine cut slices I fill with idioms. Textured, blue pink green or more likely white. Paper perpetually smooth like the words I scan floating across the screen. Cursive turned to typing but I’m still composing, I promise. Comments are closed.
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May 2023
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