You could have a big dipper   

and the universe held my hand by Thea Wilkens

CW: mental health, implied trauma, implied suicidal ideation, implied ED




in the city at night, the buildings gleam

whiter than milk teeth. buses scurry by,

packed full with people who today have laughed

or wept or sang, danced around the kitchen

with their good news, or carried their bad news

with them until the rain, begging their sorrows to turn


cloud-grey, rise, dissolve. tonight i walk

alone to the river & lean over the railings

of the observation deck. street lamp reflections

churn golden swirls into the black current: the only

constellations that have learned how to shine

through the pollution. i promise myself


that when i make it through this week

(because it is when now, not if, not anymore),

i will buy myself a frosted lemonade taller

than my head, & i will let my lips get sticky

with sugar, & i will name my hunger a blessing,

loving it as i love other animals.




 

thea wilkens (she/they) is a queer teen poet from central texas. she enjoys writing, music, art, and most other creative forms of self-expression. they have been writing poetry, novels, short stories, etc. since she could pick up a pen, and she has never been one to listen to people who tell them they are too young. when they're not writing, you can find her outside, with her friends, or sitting with her cat, mira. they have far too many books, and a slightly unhealthy obsession with thrifting, lucy dacus, and orchid mantises. you can find her on instagram at @dear.theodora, and pinterest at @muddylemons.

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