heat

heat

Like cherry pits rotting under the sun

Your perfume still lingers in the humid air of march

No breeze, for the world has stood still

A lazy summer afternoon passing before its time

My finger tips caress my dampened cheeks, sticky

Tongue tainted with the glossy red of the fruit

Yet teeth patterned deep velvet with my blood

As my lips carve under my bite marks

Marble on wood

It is only me and nothing else

For the city has lost its buzz since you left

Poetry caught in my throat

Suddenly unfamiliar to the ink of worn pens

And as my smile aches for the kiss of another girl

I take the love you have taught me and taste it in ripe plums

And with the loss i learn to move on

Swallow the cherries and

Throw out the pits onto the soil

Just as their stench becomes too strong

For perhaps they may blossom

Around this time next march

—a lesson on love, loss, and summer fruit, by amanda

listening to songs on the highest volume. songs as dense and thick as molasses, running through your mind slowly and deliberately, coating over the hurt like trying to paint white over black

chewing gum every minute of every day, even hours after it's lost its flavor. each movement of your jaw reminds you that not all your senses have dulled yet, that not everything has gone numb.

intentionally breathing deeper and deeper, letting the air reach the farthest depths of your lungs, more than you ever let his words sink in, forcing your breath to have more weight, more significance, than his whispered promises ever did

searching so desperately to find moments of happiness, grasping onto them tightly, and with panic, knowing they'll soon be washed over by waves of loneliness, accompanied by empty chests, chipped nail polish, and puffy eyes that won't vanish even with a good night's sleep.

resting your head on the shoulder of another boy, sinking into his arms as he says that the one who loved you "doesn't know what he's missing", convincing yourself that you're not thinking about how his arms felt different; still aching for his touch and for him to tell you he made a mistake, that he still loves you, that he still wants to hold on

replaying each moment of closeness that you had. each moment where he told you he never wanted to hurt you, that he never wanted these feelings to change -

and then the image cuts

to your heaving tears in the cold air, hidden in the shadows of the trees, encompassed by his arms, his arms.

aching for the day that you'll love again, renewed and revived and unafraid.

—aftermath, by helena

● when your favorite song comes on the radio

● finding just what you were hoping for at the thrift store

● your pet sitting on your lap unexpectedly

● getting into comfortable clothes when you get home

● the satisfaction of creating something

● the feeling when you’ve written a beautiful poem

● a character idea popping into your head while on a walk

● walking with a friend in the hallway and forgetting that everyone else exists

● inside jokes with siblings

● a particularly good facemask

● finding an old stuffed animal from childhood

● meeting an old friend

● hearing a song and feeling it resonate in your bones

● completing something small on your bucket list

● being able to wear your favorite bra

● planning an outfit you love to wear tomorrow

● afternoon naps

● going through family photo albums at your grandparents’

● dancing down the street in the rain with your sister

● coming home and being able to get under the covers

● watching the moon follow you when you’re driving at night

● when a friend’s cat who ‘doesn’t usually like people’ loves you right away

—little moments, by kayla

we drink honey lattes in the sun,

shades over our eyes;

i can’t see yours sparkle like ice.

you’re rambling about the hole in the ozone layer,

telling me about what we can do,

why aren’t we doing anything?

i’m not listening, i’m just watching,

looking for answers in your peachy lips.

you don’t see me, i don’t think;

you aren’t present in the real world- the only thing real to you is your mind-

i wish you would see me,

would fall for me like i’ve fallen for you,

but your eyes are hidden by your honey latte & your head is somewhere far,

far,

away

—honey lattes, by syd

Real love is not born from desire

or made from desperate lust.

It is forged in a gentle fire

and shaped by innocent trust.

Real love is not like a fairytale

and can be difficult to follow

but it ensures we don’t fail

by never becoming hollow.

Real love is not always clear

as it alters itself to survive.

It can be something very dear

if we just allow it to thrive.

—real love, by rani

You hide away your problems and act

as if there’s no sadness we can share.

You don’t tell me what really bothers you

as if you aren’t aware how much I care.

You don’t mean to but you lie to me

when you say I’m better off ignorant.

My heart breaks a little every time

you pretend to be so indifferent.

You have no idea how much I care

or how desperately I wish to prove

that your battle of impossibility

can be started with one small move.

I’ll be here every moment I can spare

so you don’t have to feel alone.

I’m not perfect but I’d like to try,

so please open your walls of stone.

You deserve help in finding your smile

so next time you’re alone against despair,

just ask yourself one small question:

don’t you know how much I care?

—how much i care, by rani

photoset by ally

Their eyes are incredibly simple

and yet they are so much more.

is something I’ll always adore.

The magic lying with them

Their eyes are filled with stars

glittering like a night sky

and the constellations formed

are too beautiful to deny.

Their eyes are filled with nature

like forests or quiet lagoons.

Every time I look into them,

the love inside me blooms.

Their eyes are filled with colours

that change under the light

and each different shade

elicits a new kind of delight.

Their eyes are full of mystery

that borders on ineffable

and each detail just proves

that they are simply incredible.

—their eyes, by rani