Poetry
the caterpillar woman, in three parts
Angelina Luo i. the neighbor is the same self as a woman-- self as matter, congealed, from slow-turning doorknobs the echo, slightness of raised voices, the knots in her small hands a croak & the shoveling of carpet, swallowing her whole. self as the lady next house over— self as submission; ask her for some sugar & she asks her husband (apprehension—timidity—superfine & powdered) concave voice creases in the corner of his eyes, not unkind not at all just slight and the doorknob spins and stops [she gave her oldest pound away the stitching on the bag cross-work of (little stars—little sparks—) somewhat resembling life] self as the car-- self as yours to drive take hours around waste a little gas take it for a spin, even though your feet hurt a bit [“hey, why’d you take my car?”] & close the door soft enough so he can’t hear your coughing in the garage. ii. you want to be dorothy this halloween gasoline dripping out of orifices acid pooling in slits of open wounds pockets: kind words. bubble at the top. [unreal, unreal] feel grass dew on your skin: virginity again no one can hurt you where you have hurt yourself. he can’t hurt the cords you have severed twist the already-intertwining intestines feel the nerves which you have numbed from years and years of practice silence the hairs on your arm & the rattling of cracked bone when he barrels through the hallway close off blood-pulsing veins so they don’t gush at the sight of him click your heels 1,2,3 to go home, go home, go home [unreal, unreal] he has hurt you where you cannot hurt yourself iii. his first science experiment butterflies bursting out of the skin / feel the remnants of his lips / on the sweatiness of your palm / wonder, does he taste the salt? / do his eyes paralyze / study the slope of your shoulder? / harmony of your pulse and the tone of your voice? / or does he set you free? / feel butterflies beneath fingernails / ripping off the dead weight / taking flight / does he like catching butterflies? / put them in glass jars & on little stands / rip them in half & piece them together / to his liking or do you run / turn into a centipede? / one hundred legs / all stitched to you / from singed skin / sever the burned parts / parts from the glass / to be free again Sweetheart, Will You Dine With Me?
Eleanor Bushway The world crumbles at your fingertips Everything you touch becomes dust because it wasn't good enough nothing is good enough so I ask you one question Sweetheart, will you dine with me? Because I want to crumble beneath your touch because I know I'm not good enough If I fall in love then I can disappear happily knowing I experienced everything everyone craves Your touch Just once I want something to go right so please say yes Let me fall into your existence and turn to dust in your hands because I'll never be good enough but I can't ever seem to let go You are my everything I can't live without you so take me out before it's too late before they all realize I'm a fraud and I have nothing at all I’d Never Lie
Steph Serra cold like raindrops on the natural earth when the rain stops we can rebirth warm like summer with a breeze like fall life’s a bummer but we stand tall and i swear to you you’re why i breathe and i swear to you i will not leave because you are the last piece of me im sorry i struggle with empathy but you’ll get what’s left of me you’ll always get the best of me because you are the rest of me i wouldnt lie no, no i couldn’t lie chilled like ice on the winter’s ground my advice, is don’t fall down your voice it echoes and sounds like spring i will not let go you’re my everything i swear to you my one and only i swear to never leave you lonely because you’ve been the one to hold me i swear to you I’ve changed the old me i will not turn away so coldly you’ll never be left so lonely because you are my one and only i wouldn’t lie no, no i couldn’t lie i wouldn’t lie, i couldn’t lie if i could fly would it change your mind? if i tried would you give me time? if i drowned in all my fears would you wipe away the tears because i’ll love you for all my years you shake away all my fears you’re the reason i'm still here my gravity and atmosphere i wouldn’t lie no, no i couldn’t lie i'd never lie Stop
Ali Willoughby You're beautiful. Inside and out. Stop comparing yourself to him or her. Don't worry about stretch marks, You're still beautiful. Stop thinking you're less than everyone. Because you're not. You're beautiful. Look in the mirror and say I love you. Think of the positive things about you And your life. You've made it this far Live another minute, Make that minute into an hour, Hour into day, Day into week, Week into month, And month into year. You have lived a wonderful life. You've seen beautiful sites, But have you seen the most beautiful? Look in the mirror. |
Loss
Piper Leanna I’m screaming without words Drowning deep down in the abyss I’m broken I’m in pieces I’m scattered everywhere I can’t seem to feel Is it bad I want to die, just to be reborn as someone else? Time hasn’t moved Why can’t I just be brand new? like an hourglass that never fills I can’t make myself happy Relying on everything around me I’m the one stopped in the middle of a time lapse death scares me, not my own, but everyone else’s I love I’m more emotional than I’ve ever been more irritable, more sad I want to die before everyone else I’m so sick of funerals I want to forget the happy memories that make it so painful but I know I can’t I feel like a puppet on strings nothing feels real It’s all a simulation being dragged through the hours Using the internet to stay alive yet it drags the life right out of me. Never Quite Enough
Eric Lachapelle No matter how hard I try Every once in a while I stumble No matter how much I succeed I fail every once in a while No matter how much time I enjoy with my friends I still sometimes still feel lonely No matter how ambitious and dedicated I am to a task I still leave many of my ambitions behind No matter how calm and balanced I may seem to be My mind is a chaotic storm and sometimes a tempest swirls No matter how firmly cemented in the light I am Sometimes darkness and my demons tempt me to do evil Even though my future and the road ahead is colorfully illustrated Sometimes a murky inky void devoids me of my vision and my world loses its color To many people, my happiness seems unending and infinite Yet I have suffered a lot to grow and I still suffer to this day It may seem that I make friends easily And I’m still hopelessly chasing after a person for no good reason No matter how crazy I may seem to others I am firmly grounded in reality and in control of my actions Despite my failures and shortcomings I still have a chance to change my life for the better Even if I continue to fail time and time again Everyone will keep believing in me and help me reach my full potential Even if someone tells me I’m wrong I still seek the truth Even if someone challenges my beliefs I try to keep an open mind but remain skeptical We are all imperfect people Yet we shall treasure our uniqueness and our quirks We all make mistakes at times But we must rise once more and accept a new challenge We may fall into deep despair every now and then But we must not entirely lose all hope We may hopelessly chase after people or dreams But we must never let our imagination completely vanish We may at times lose all hope for a better future either for ourselves, the ones we love, or the world But we must believe that there is a purpose for living and there still is hope and potential for the world let go
Grayson Corio do you ever find it sad, how people change? like your memories of them soon fade to grey. what once was a bond now is rusted with cracks what can i do to help you turn back turn back to the person i knew two, almost three years ago i guess the old you is hard to let go - do you miss you like i do? with those pink shoes and those eyes sunken blue the posters on your walls town down and replaced theres no template left of you for me to trace-- into the memory of my mind but you’ve turned your cheek bat an eye - but you’re no longer you, and i am no longer me, i suppose change is inevitable so why am i not happy? so why do i see your face and feint? because the freckles you used to like are now concealed with paint // i don't think these thoughts only at 3am, sometimes after a FaceTime call with an old friend Walt Whitman, A Cosmic Inquiry
Emily Tonning Do you have a map of the stars? What did you use, Uncle Walt, All those years ago? What gave you the strength, Uncle Walt, To shamelessly walk against the scornful edges of this planet, Despite the chance that your clothes would catch Or that your skin would get cut up? How were you so brave, Uncle Walt? So sure of yourself, and so proud, Amidst a world where your kind wasn’t allowed? What constellations gave you the strength? Maybe it was as if the stars were inside of you the whole time. To Love Undoubtedly
Anonymous shut the door and rip apart the closet my hands are in the back where I keep all my jackets a bleak sensation to my eyes that rifles my arms with careless whispers of sentiment. prop the pillow up to support your broken leg. tossed and torn and yellowed. holding hands without a smile because skin against skin is just skin against skin. a smile is towards the end of that day in front of a candle to warm your sweetly dim eyes, tossed and torn and yellowed. a blanket thrown to look nice surrounded by thoughts and questions and boxes and boxes and boxes. of softness and love and something else I can’t remember. boxes and boxes and boxes unopened for years, left to rot. my heart beats quickly and slowly to the tone of your voice thinking and thinking and thinking again of how much how little to feel yesterday, today, and tomorrow. tossed and torn and yellowed. filled and emptied by the mirrors surrounding. that say you’re nothing more than less than what you see. Human
Ali Willoughby We are judged by color. Rip away the flesh And we're the same, We're human. We are judged based on who we like Take away gender and sexuality, And we just love. We love who we love. Ignore our genders And we're all the same, We're human. We are given labels Forgetting we're all the same Forgetting we're all human |
Prose
Souls
Gemma Gallagher
“Do you understand what it’s like to take a soul?” asked the reaper, relaxed and unflinchingly rigid. The girl stared him back into the weight under his hood, searching for some glint of life.
“I once ‘bought’ a soul from a friend for a quarter and two Reeses’ cups,” she replied, smiling at the shadow that enveloped her fate, “and I’ve never used it.”
Silence fell with the rain that sheeted the abandoned street, dim street signs lighting blurry neon pink and blue in the puddles, as if they were portals to somewhere other than here. Somewhere brighter, somewhere happier, somewhere so much less devoid of hope.
The reaper shifts, and though there is silence and demise lurking like the thunderclouds above their heads, the air is light. “Why do you smile? Are you not aware of me, of what I am, what I’ve become?”
“I know who you are - you’re the Grim Reaper. You come for those who no longer get to stay here, and escort them to whatever death holds… Not that we know what’s in store for us - like, what the afterlife is, or why... Well, not we, but - you get it.” She stares into the glint of the scythe, seeing the reflection of a lost silhouette with nothing to light its faded edges.
“So why do you smile?” he questions, tilting his hood ever so softly to the side. “Many scream, beg, bargain and even flee for any other chance at life. Why do you not run?”
“Because I’m not scared of you,” she replied, easily and steadily, the hands that started crossed slid into empty, shallow pockets; the black holes of wallets, polaroids, drugs, memories, or anything she ever cared for. “People have this weird, preconceived notion of you. They think that when they die, and you come to take them, that makes you the ‘Bringer of Death’. People kind of forget to spend their lives living because they waste it fearing ‘The Inevitable’.” She paused, her head spinning in circles, and refocusing for a moment. “When, in actuality, you escort people to the next phase of whatever comes next: you are the last person someone ever sees before (or right after) they die. You are the only presence of someone at the loneliest they’ve ever been.” A smile creeps across her pale lips as she shrugs.
“People always want to assume that you’re what separates them from their lives, when you’re really just the ‘messenger’ in a bigger system. Actually, that makes you a really, really good guy.”
Though she could not see it, she felt the glint under the hood in that moment. But that was all it was - a glint.
“Do you not fear death?”
“Should I?”
Rain spilled from the sky in shattered sheets as bright lightning struck somewhere in the distance. The girl wondered what unlucky thing it hit. The reaper wondered what the beautiful array of lights had done to, say, some stray patch of sand and created a life size sculpture of chaos.
“I guess I’m dying, right?” the girl wonders, though there was no wondering actually involved. The reaper shifts, his cloaked hand falling further down the handle of the scythe. “...Yes.”
“Do I get to know how I died?”
“You should already know.”
The girl looked at her dirty, scuffed Vans, the names of friends long gone inked against the soles. She felt the way her heart twisted in her chest, and the way her sore eyes had been blurred and unable to focus; the trouble she had breathing in oxygen and reality. She suddenly remembered that the lights had been crisp, clear reflections in the puddles the day before, and why they weren’t now; and why her pockets had been black holes. She’d taken anything that could’ve been of use. “...Oh.”
Expression and empathy leaked from the shadows of the reaper’s cloak, like a dark cloud spilling its secrets among the Earth. “Do you regret it? What you’ve done to yourself?”
The girl pondered this for a moment, eyes cloudy and wandering among the rooftop fog waterfalls. It wasn’t clear anymore whether she was actually thinking, or if the words just spilled out of the sores in her mouth.
“No.” Her weight shifted as she struggled to stay upright. “Even though I wasn’t here long, I met some amazing people. All doomed to the same fate. It’s a little sweet that I made it longer than them, but in the end, a bit more bitter.” Her laugh came out as a dry cough, the dust in her lungs rattling like a child’s toy.
The chest of the cloak rose and fell in a few short breaths, as if a silent laugh echoed through all the empty space in those shadows. If she listened hard enough, she could hear the laugh of someone who had been blamed for endless demise and misery, but could still laugh in the face of it.
“Are you ready?” asked the reaper, standing a bit taller and holding the scythe a bit more seriously, as if the situation itself had settled into the bones of a shadow ghost.
The girl thought, wrapping her mind around the possibility of life one last time. Of the friends she’d had, and the late nights at concerts and bars she’d seen. The music that played too loud as the bridges rumbled above them, the same the thunder rumbled above them now; and the countless funerals of her friends she’d attended in consequence of what made those nights so unforgettable. Of fates sent to them in the same way she saw it tower in front of her now. A smile crept to yellow cracked teeth, her body dried of tears all those years ago.
She nodded, exhaled, and let those memories fade with the chemicals in her brain and the beat in her chest. She walked beside him, stumbling for the last time.
Gemma Gallagher
“Do you understand what it’s like to take a soul?” asked the reaper, relaxed and unflinchingly rigid. The girl stared him back into the weight under his hood, searching for some glint of life.
“I once ‘bought’ a soul from a friend for a quarter and two Reeses’ cups,” she replied, smiling at the shadow that enveloped her fate, “and I’ve never used it.”
Silence fell with the rain that sheeted the abandoned street, dim street signs lighting blurry neon pink and blue in the puddles, as if they were portals to somewhere other than here. Somewhere brighter, somewhere happier, somewhere so much less devoid of hope.
The reaper shifts, and though there is silence and demise lurking like the thunderclouds above their heads, the air is light. “Why do you smile? Are you not aware of me, of what I am, what I’ve become?”
“I know who you are - you’re the Grim Reaper. You come for those who no longer get to stay here, and escort them to whatever death holds… Not that we know what’s in store for us - like, what the afterlife is, or why... Well, not we, but - you get it.” She stares into the glint of the scythe, seeing the reflection of a lost silhouette with nothing to light its faded edges.
“So why do you smile?” he questions, tilting his hood ever so softly to the side. “Many scream, beg, bargain and even flee for any other chance at life. Why do you not run?”
“Because I’m not scared of you,” she replied, easily and steadily, the hands that started crossed slid into empty, shallow pockets; the black holes of wallets, polaroids, drugs, memories, or anything she ever cared for. “People have this weird, preconceived notion of you. They think that when they die, and you come to take them, that makes you the ‘Bringer of Death’. People kind of forget to spend their lives living because they waste it fearing ‘The Inevitable’.” She paused, her head spinning in circles, and refocusing for a moment. “When, in actuality, you escort people to the next phase of whatever comes next: you are the last person someone ever sees before (or right after) they die. You are the only presence of someone at the loneliest they’ve ever been.” A smile creeps across her pale lips as she shrugs.
“People always want to assume that you’re what separates them from their lives, when you’re really just the ‘messenger’ in a bigger system. Actually, that makes you a really, really good guy.”
Though she could not see it, she felt the glint under the hood in that moment. But that was all it was - a glint.
“Do you not fear death?”
“Should I?”
Rain spilled from the sky in shattered sheets as bright lightning struck somewhere in the distance. The girl wondered what unlucky thing it hit. The reaper wondered what the beautiful array of lights had done to, say, some stray patch of sand and created a life size sculpture of chaos.
“I guess I’m dying, right?” the girl wonders, though there was no wondering actually involved. The reaper shifts, his cloaked hand falling further down the handle of the scythe. “...Yes.”
“Do I get to know how I died?”
“You should already know.”
The girl looked at her dirty, scuffed Vans, the names of friends long gone inked against the soles. She felt the way her heart twisted in her chest, and the way her sore eyes had been blurred and unable to focus; the trouble she had breathing in oxygen and reality. She suddenly remembered that the lights had been crisp, clear reflections in the puddles the day before, and why they weren’t now; and why her pockets had been black holes. She’d taken anything that could’ve been of use. “...Oh.”
Expression and empathy leaked from the shadows of the reaper’s cloak, like a dark cloud spilling its secrets among the Earth. “Do you regret it? What you’ve done to yourself?”
The girl pondered this for a moment, eyes cloudy and wandering among the rooftop fog waterfalls. It wasn’t clear anymore whether she was actually thinking, or if the words just spilled out of the sores in her mouth.
“No.” Her weight shifted as she struggled to stay upright. “Even though I wasn’t here long, I met some amazing people. All doomed to the same fate. It’s a little sweet that I made it longer than them, but in the end, a bit more bitter.” Her laugh came out as a dry cough, the dust in her lungs rattling like a child’s toy.
The chest of the cloak rose and fell in a few short breaths, as if a silent laugh echoed through all the empty space in those shadows. If she listened hard enough, she could hear the laugh of someone who had been blamed for endless demise and misery, but could still laugh in the face of it.
“Are you ready?” asked the reaper, standing a bit taller and holding the scythe a bit more seriously, as if the situation itself had settled into the bones of a shadow ghost.
The girl thought, wrapping her mind around the possibility of life one last time. Of the friends she’d had, and the late nights at concerts and bars she’d seen. The music that played too loud as the bridges rumbled above them, the same the thunder rumbled above them now; and the countless funerals of her friends she’d attended in consequence of what made those nights so unforgettable. Of fates sent to them in the same way she saw it tower in front of her now. A smile crept to yellow cracked teeth, her body dried of tears all those years ago.
She nodded, exhaled, and let those memories fade with the chemicals in her brain and the beat in her chest. She walked beside him, stumbling for the last time.
Welcome to My Cage
-3.14
There are so many rules in my world. There are things I am not allowed to do, things I must do. I am told constantly to do things. Then there are those things that are implied. To help around. To do my work. To clean my room. To try my best.
As I sit in the car, not even old enough to drive, I listen to my parents talk. I have to. It’s another rule. I’m trapped in a metal cage and I sit behind everyone else. I have no control of where I am going. Places flash by outside my window. I shift in my seat. My father calls to me. His voice isn’t harsh. It’s firm. It leaves no room to breathe. I look at his eyes in the rear view mirror. He glances back out onto the road. His voice is loud, wide. His words fill all the empty space between us.
‘Do sports... join clubs... scholarship money can pay... Harvard... any Ivy League... make a name for yourself... good job... get money... comfortable home... no worries... are you listening?’
I am. Oh, God. I am. Words thunder in my ears. They echo with every breath I take. Blooming under my eyelids when I dare to close my eyes. I hear you. I hear you. I hear you. It’s all I hear. So many responsibilities. So many choices closed. So many words. Everywhere. Far too few end results.
I sit in the car, and I can’t breathe. There’s no air. I’m choking, crying, screaming. But the words that tell me what to do fill my head. I shut my eyes and I can already see my future. Can I make it to college? Can I get a good job? Can I survive?
It’s not living. It’s not. I’m walking in the footsteps placed there for me. I don’t get to decide. I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted it. It’s thrust upon me. I’m drowning in a sea of words that tell me what to do. How I might succeed. How hard my life would be if I don’t. My parents aren’t the only ones burying me in this closed casket. I get told. Every. Day. How hard it’s going to be. How much I have to lose. They tell me how fortunate I am to lead the life I lead.
‘You have potential. You can go far. It’d be a waste if you didn’t.’ I know. I know. I know even in the backseat of a car as it carries me to whatever lies next. But what if I don’t want the future?
I’m heading to a destination. Eyes ahead. Don’t stop. Keep going. They speak to me. They tell me what I have to do. They tell me why. Mouth shut. I listen. I say all the right things. Deep breaths. Stop gritting your teeth.
I’m not driving. I never was. They love me, they want me to be happy, they want me to feel free and comfortable. But my mind aches from the pressure. I have such a small load to bear, and my knees buckle. I want to throw the load off, I want to free myself. People around me. Shouting. I’ve got to carry on.
But I never asked for this.
So if I fail.
It’s not my fault.
Because I never asked for this.
-3.14
There are so many rules in my world. There are things I am not allowed to do, things I must do. I am told constantly to do things. Then there are those things that are implied. To help around. To do my work. To clean my room. To try my best.
As I sit in the car, not even old enough to drive, I listen to my parents talk. I have to. It’s another rule. I’m trapped in a metal cage and I sit behind everyone else. I have no control of where I am going. Places flash by outside my window. I shift in my seat. My father calls to me. His voice isn’t harsh. It’s firm. It leaves no room to breathe. I look at his eyes in the rear view mirror. He glances back out onto the road. His voice is loud, wide. His words fill all the empty space between us.
‘Do sports... join clubs... scholarship money can pay... Harvard... any Ivy League... make a name for yourself... good job... get money... comfortable home... no worries... are you listening?’
I am. Oh, God. I am. Words thunder in my ears. They echo with every breath I take. Blooming under my eyelids when I dare to close my eyes. I hear you. I hear you. I hear you. It’s all I hear. So many responsibilities. So many choices closed. So many words. Everywhere. Far too few end results.
I sit in the car, and I can’t breathe. There’s no air. I’m choking, crying, screaming. But the words that tell me what to do fill my head. I shut my eyes and I can already see my future. Can I make it to college? Can I get a good job? Can I survive?
It’s not living. It’s not. I’m walking in the footsteps placed there for me. I don’t get to decide. I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted it. It’s thrust upon me. I’m drowning in a sea of words that tell me what to do. How I might succeed. How hard my life would be if I don’t. My parents aren’t the only ones burying me in this closed casket. I get told. Every. Day. How hard it’s going to be. How much I have to lose. They tell me how fortunate I am to lead the life I lead.
‘You have potential. You can go far. It’d be a waste if you didn’t.’ I know. I know. I know even in the backseat of a car as it carries me to whatever lies next. But what if I don’t want the future?
I’m heading to a destination. Eyes ahead. Don’t stop. Keep going. They speak to me. They tell me what I have to do. They tell me why. Mouth shut. I listen. I say all the right things. Deep breaths. Stop gritting your teeth.
I’m not driving. I never was. They love me, they want me to be happy, they want me to feel free and comfortable. But my mind aches from the pressure. I have such a small load to bear, and my knees buckle. I want to throw the load off, I want to free myself. People around me. Shouting. I’ve got to carry on.
But I never asked for this.
So if I fail.
It’s not my fault.
Because I never asked for this.