what’seatingyou?
unspoken
“Something about it made me remember my subconscious understanding that I was being cut open. I was being dissected.”
Catherine Hernandez, Scarborough
“What if I’m a beautiful wound people dance inside of?”
Billy-Ray Belcourt, A Minor Chorus
DearReader,
Whensomeoneasksyou,“What'seatingyou?",theymightbeasking“What's botheringyou?”“Whatareyouthinkingabout?”“What’sonyourmind?”Butin othermoments,thequestioncanrefertowhat'sconsumingyou:yourtime, yourenergy,yoursoul–yourinsecuritiesandsecrets yourguts yourpain
Perhapsthereisthisunderlyingconsumptionyoufeelwithinyourself,akind ofburden-asufferingorheavyweightexistinginside.Sometimeswefind ourselvesoverwhelmedwithemotionsornoneatall.Nonetheless,the interpretationisyourown.
"What'sEatingYou”isaninvitationtotalkaboutthisconsumption.This Winter2024anthologyisorganizedintofoursections:bile,guts,ulcers,and stones.Inliterature,bileisoftenassociatedwithintenseangerormelancholy. Inthebody,bileisafluidreleasedfromthegallbladderthateventuallyaids withdigestioninthestomach.Therefore,bilecanserveasabeginning,the outwardexpressionofemotion Gutsrepresentourinnermostfeelings, sometimesunconscious,unrealized.Ulcerscanrepresentpain-excruciating, destructive,anddifficulttoheal.Stonesisthenanultimatebuild-upofthese emotions,thisconsumption,everythingthatis"eatingyou."Butstonescanalso beseenasbuildingblocks,akindofresilience,hopefulnessthatperhaps healingispossible.
Iwouldliketothankthewriters,illustrators,thinkers-artistswhohave attemptedtoexpressthenarrativesthatremainclosetotheirhearts,oftenthe personalandunheard,thosewhohavecreatedapassageforthevoicesof othersandstoodalongsidethem.Individualswhohavecraftedandnurtured spacesofcreativeexpression,distortedtheveryaspectsofthevacuumthat kepttheirvoicessealed Thankyouforputtingwordstotheexperienceswe findourselvesrelatingtobutcouldnotexplain.
Manythankstoallwhohavecontributedtothisanthology,fromitsinception toitsphysicalentity.Afinalthankstoyou,thereader,forcontinuingtoshow yourcuriosityforpoetry.Asalways,wehopeyoufindpiecesofyourselfwithin theselines Wehopetheyvalidateandreleasesomeoftheemotionsyoumay feel.
Sincerely,
JenniferZhang Editor 2023/2024
MEET THE TEAM
What are you made of?
IqraJaved Co-President
Kaneera Uthayakumaran Co-President
“bitsandpiecesof thepeoplewhohave caredforme
AdieVucic Finance
JenniferZhang Editor
“karaokeonSunday nights,cafesandmarkets, citylightsandcarnations thatglowinthedark”
OmaimaOwais Host/Events
“maniacallaughter, flowerpetals,fruit chaat,andevery otherwonderful thing>:)”
AqsaRahim Host/Events
“moonlight,stardust, pinkypromises&all thesmiles(with dimples)
AamnaNaveed
Illustrator
“Hopeandoptimism, passionanddrive, dreamsthataresobig theyscareme
MaraLi
Illustrator “onehundred-ninety poundsofwarmflesh, love,andtremblinghope
AshaJeejeebhoySwalwell
Illustrator
MahaKhan Promotions
“passion,sadness,and theloveIhavetogive tothepeoplethatmean themosttome”
Ashfia Choudhury Illustrator
“Buldakramen noodlesandice capps ”
bile
Pick me out from between your teeth Emma
Good god she had you by the throat, held fast in her iron hand.
A dripping throb of viscera, with animal thirst you once loved a cannibal, She was a cold slaughterhouse before you came along
Your cleaved-open soul lays upon her chopping block, she sucks devotion out through your throat. Love bites.
Rank and hot; Hungry husk hung over soiled cement.
She tears you from the hook each night, to be reborn in mourning light
Lean in Close enough to see the stitches tear
Awaken: trembling and obedient. She returns: sordid and sorrowful.
Her heart lays within your hands. Faith muscles up inside you like a holy war.
Put your teeth to something, sharpen your needs on longing
Learn to love being strung along by the neck; staked on a rusted piece of chain in an overgrown yard.
Know you will kiss her with meat still between your teeth, beneath a window cracked open like a rib cage, light spilt like blood across the floor.
Dissolving flesh and melting bone, the cannibal lies with you alone.
The song of dusk MKL
The sun descends under the ceiling of blue
This acts as a subtle cue
A shadow gets swept over my head and my chest
My breathing picks up as I try to hold myself in a gentle caress
A knife stabs into the wound of my heart
Stabbing and stabbing but I won’t fall apart
I envelope myself in my blanket of pain
Waiting for the demons of night to pull me away
When the sun comes up I lie so still
Finally my lungs are able to fill
The shadows are gone but not for too long
For when the song of dusk begins again I am forced to sing along
Poppy-Red Eyes
Sonya Ma
I paint my nails poppy-red, To hide the hunger I reek of Therein lies a longing that seeps into my pores, A painting so desperate it becomes graffiti
I’ve never wanted to be anyone I worship her porcelain skin on my phone, Anyone but you–
I am the other woman, To her who everyone writes poems to I am the artist, not once the muse, No whispers searching to find me–There are sonnets about you.
Have you tasted–
The drywall before the paint, The sourness before the honey hits, The key that screams before you find the tune, The song you skip for your favourite–
Have you noticed, What eats me is my own femininity Too much or too little makes me sickly, I think thinking too much can make my mother unhappy To say I’m mangled by her beauty is a lie–I am speaking through my father’s eyes.
to find a balance r.v.
passion, pain and pleasure
i have been trying to find some sort of balance, though i never can
i question if it is even mine to obtain, if this balance i seek is even there to be claimed
i have tried passion, loving so much until it hurts; until i am so blind in emotion until i am desperate to hold on
i wonder why i crave passion so deeply, to my core as a child wondering how best to love my friends, when they would not even dare to be seen with me; why as a teenager i held onto so much bullshitjust for a chance to be cared for passionately to my core today, as a young adult who just imagines the concept of passion for life itself
too often have i tried pain, it has been too close a friend of mine then i would like to admit it has always been a resource - though the wrong one as it has always only ever been temporary
i wonder why i continue to crave pain, as if blood or bruised knuckles will make a difference how the scars age twelve to twenty has seen any change, as if relapsing is just part of my story
pleasure is a tricky one, how to define it today is ever-changing, is it pleasure of life or the pleasure of the things in life? both perhaps - though i don’t know how to allow it to be simultaneous
i wonder how to accept pleasure, without feeling guilty or less of a person for partaking; how to enjoy the moment and not the shame of the after, to just be and be it entirely
passion, pain and pleasure – will i ever find the balance?
The Faults of a Poet
Ramneek Panchi
I look down at a blank piece paper and its perfec
It is pearly white, and smooth to the touch.
I detest it. I detest it so much.
I pick up my glass pen and wedge it firmly betw
I rummage through my drawer and look for my d Obsidian black
I dip my pen into the ink, and the transparency o blacks.
The first stroke on the pearly white teeth of the p made the most perfect of perfect, imperfect.
As I write, I continue to dip my pen into the ink. The tips of my fingers are now shriveled up and I too now bare the same ink as the paper.
I need more.
I NEED to write more
As my pen fights against the paper, I cut the tip of my finger I see my blood running through and away from me.
Looking at my fingertips I now see red and black. I can no longer tell what colour runs through me.
Staring down at a piece of paper covered in the blackest of black and reddest of red. It’s imperfection now too daunts me.
You Misunderstand My Intentions
Durezernab Berki
My grievances, anguish, And face sheened by tears Are but a shroud for acridity embodied Veiling from the innocent, My desperation for solace of mind
For seeing this lamenting soul Has stricken not a single vein, That is, if compassion is concerned
But my tongue swirls, and bends, and flicks, Forming the words expected Capturing the essence of it all, As if my heart beats along with the rest
None comprehending my utterance, And its nature so lovingly acquired, From my mind all too consumed By my own despondency, To have room for anything else
And the else, this lamenting soul, Is simply a vessel through which I find Release from the pain within This egocentrism varies, I warn, Vastly from that understanding, Whose foundation is none but compassion, That you claim me to show
the aunt id like to be Annika Venkatesh
I can see you coming up the driveway. The door is unlocked. Come in, come in. I've got scones in the freezer and a pot of tea on the stove, I'll pour it without spilling a drop, straining out the ginger and cardamom and basking in the smell of the steam. Take your favourite seat, put down your bag, here's your cup with the quote you love so much. Take a sip, dip a Madeleine biscuit into the mug, watch it crumble into your plate.
How was the drive down? How has school been? Not "How's school been?", it’s a slow question, a real question – an invitation to talk and an invitation to silence for as long as you need either. Put your words on the table and we will set our cups on top of them until they've become cloth coasters you can fold and tuck away later. Not at the end of the night, later, I'm not kicking you out You can stay as long as you feel okay here Spare bed, towels, toothbrushes, or just a to-go bag of cookies, I’ve got it all
Are you hungry? Come, talk to me while we make dinner. I’ll show you how I make my pasta, but fear makes it sour take it slow, we don’t have room for heartbeats speeding up or hyperventilating or clammy hands when stirring the sauce until the colour deepens. Golden glow and cold breeze drifting in, and we can hear the conversations of a quiet early evening from outside.
You know, I’m proud of you. The way you’re breathing. The fact that you came over. You know, I’m cheering for your cleaned dishes and the lunch you finally had at 4-o-clock The ways you struggle to be real and all the panic bubbling under your sternum, I’m proud that your eyes open in the morning.
Stop to catch the sunset, now. And the way the sky glows blue for the next hour.
You know, I’m glad to tell you I love you. I’m glad you’re used to it.
If Only: A letter, a promise, to the children subject to war and injustices
Zoya Hasan
If I could wipe
And hold you in Promise that yo And shade your I would.
If only we didn
Toil ignorantly
Must carry the d
And refuse to n
I’ll fight the urg
Demand the gri Dedicate my lif
So I pray to Go
Now I wield the
the things i wish you could see Aqsa Rahim
go or you never will how do i begin to tell you that even if i walk out that even if this car door closes that i’ll still love you that my eyes will forever search to meet yours in every room that i walk into how do i begin to tell you that it’s different now, that love is terrifying but that it doesn’t have to be if we try –but maybe trying is a lot maybe the word try is like the flickering of hope that died a long time ago but time, time is fleeting go, or you never will i’ll go but my love won’t i’ll go but the memory won’t you are everything i still love you i always will
i’ll wait here in this spot looking back at you i wonder if you look back too your heart’s door closes mine is still open you say you’re bad at feeling emotions and so you run to go once more the love, it flickers and time, it is fleeting but to love you, it is forever.
the things i wish you could see.
Forgive Me Koko
Will you forgive me for missing you before you go?
I find myself victim to a distance transformed.
Time stretches and it slows, space disappears, but, somehow, it returns you further.
Excuse the madness that envies the wind that carries you, And the soil that will know when you arrive;
The same madness resents the eyes that will bear witness to your homecoming.
Absolve me.
These are my sins.
untitled anonymous
ways i am not a person you should get up, it’s 11am, roll over and it’s 11:23, see, i was an 11 year old wondering how to float outside my mind. backseat of the car, looking out the window at my reflection, something essential about myself got caught in the slipstream and lost in the years, so now i’m lying in bed at 12:00, and i do, in theory, know how to take care of myself better, it’s just that rational thoughts aren’t in words, they’re blurred in the background, 12:23 and there’s a quote from a fanfiction, since somedays i am mrs which from a wrinkle in time, full of other people’s words and smiles and love for each other, there’s a quote from a character saying “i don’t think”. crazy, i thought, how do you not think, and some of the worst things in my mind have stemmed from idle curiosity (hey eve, do you see me?), so now it’s 12:50, i don’t remember today, the past is a play i didn’t perform right, important things will slip through the cracks, till at last i cycle back to awakeness and find i can't fix the
ways i am a terrible person walking home from a bus stop texting her 10 different ETAs and still stopping to grab yarn, always being late and telling myself it doesn’t matter that much, cut and run from everything I'm scared of, throwing someone new in my place and turning my back always wanting something more than what I have, the anxious look in my friends eyes trying to hold my attention while i chase after the love I'm never gonna get, resenting so quietly and thinking it doesn't show in my eyebrows, weighing the story of it all thinking of you as an archetype a role in my life seriously, are we all scared of ourselves with a knife? breaking promises like i break my heart, ugly and defensive and spilling a litany of apology sorry i havent paid up what i promised the universe and what you believed i’d be to you and sorry that before you’ve had a chance at anger i’m already reciting to myself the
ways i am forgiven
i am a plain wide-eyed desperate pile of bones in the face of a god i’ve run to pleading, like it was ever a question, grant me forgiveness lend me grace in my failures, in my shame, in my messy mistakes and the panicked pit of my stomach for the trying, and the dying, and the waking up not-quite-corpse enough to warrant the tantrum I’d like to throw because i don’t have time to paint or bake or pray small to the stars, another supplicant in the crowd, forgiveness is a brushed off thought for them so i am absolved for my forgetfulness, for telling myself i remember enough to write this, and for all the days i've doubted the inheritance of life as something i was made to face.
holy smoke and cold water splashed in eyes lined with smudged makeup, hands washed clean in the kitchen sink with lemongrass soap, standing in flipflops, summer storm, soaked to the bone, i think i am forgiven for being alive.
ulcer s
sometimes the body caves in upon itself, the emotions held hostage detained to listen to their own existence i was convinced –i could not feel for the body wasn't mine – i was a margin existing less what is the self but a story?
A convincing, compelling montage of events
A banal narrative of "happenings" Episodes – staggering Reactions – fragmented Occurrences –Of demolition, destruction Of pain –Of fear, love Of anger
Engrained on the back of a skull Dismantled and rebuilt
Reduced –
Till I look back and ask someone, "Is this real?"
Because I've come to believe truth was a void –Carving a home. The feelings abandoned. Vacating the past.
No one can convince me that it was anything but hollow.
For this is the only story I know.
Value to your Company Kaneera
Thank you for extending this offer to interview
I enjoy dynamic work environments My previous employers have mentioned my relentless work ethic, my attention to detail, and my never-ending ambition I think I am a hard worker.
I believe in saying "I am paid for eight hours, but get promotions for work done in the other 16". I intend to make sure my qualifications meet your requirements I know I can bring immense value to your company.
Yes, I work well under pressure. In fact I thrive under stress. I believe dissatisfaction is what drives me. This job will be my top priority, but I'll relax where I can.
I get enough sleep at night.
I can maintain a strong work-life balance. I don't stop until the flock and your needs are satisfied I have great time management, and I really do believe I would be a great fit in your company
How do I manage expectations? I hold myself accountable. I am always dedicated, and will maintain my commitments. I think I mentioned my previous employers have noticed my never ending. I prioritize communication and organization. The vultures pay close attention to detail. I seek growth opportunities and know I can surpass expectations in this role.
My only question is regarding next steps. I appreciate your transparency in this journey, and I am an email away if you seek clarification I check it often, you see I like to stay on top of things to avoid being pulled down any further. I think your company is a great fit. I can foster a positive working environment despite the clawing in my throat. I hope to hear from you soon. Thank you for extending this offer to interview.
The Big Responsibilities
Jess Kim
I am drunk from a Sleep so deep and a Dream so real I Remember being in control
But I was not.
I am drunk from a Morning so early yet It’s bright and sunny out and My consciousness is muddled with
Tasks of the day and Feelings of dread.
The world is on fire and People are starving but My list consists of nothing But the following: Brush teeth, and 1. Go to work. 2.
Break! Break! Break!
S.A.M
She liked icebreakers. I remember that a day after as I sit, my heart empty. I can’t recall another time I’ve felt erased. It’s a cruel joke that I remember now.
I can recall them sour. Her favourite grape flavour.
If I were to have one, I could probably feel the sourness on my tongue, before breaking it with my teeth
Seeping into every crevice
She’d give me another. Another.
Pour it all out into my mouth, She wants me to choke. I’m almost sure of it.
I’ll never be able to taste a sweet thing on my tongue again. Maybe she’ll waterboard me, She’d convince herself I don’t care.
If I don’t care, No one does.
If the sourness is gone, Maybe she thinks my memories will follow It’s twisted, and I don’t think I’ll ever be without guilt I wonder why I didn’t question my words
Why did i not ponder or seek others, Before being so careless. Did I think she’d react differently?
Maybe she’ll return,
Give me a latte. Again, with the lack of sweetness, But if my tongue burns I can’t say her name.
Or maybe, it’s a peace offering. Not so sour, not sweet, but a clean slate.
Balancing the seesaw.
Every act has consequences
I’ll wait for mine patiently
December 19th r.o.
My feet drag as I walk through the sliding doors. Smiling faces, eagerly clutching roses and signs, Wide eyes gracing every face, searching for their loved ones.
The ceiling shows stories of happy moments like these. Covered in balloons that drifted away, Deflating overtime, “Welcome Home”.
They hum the stories of homecomings. Now stuck on the ceiling like memories. Slightly shrunken by time, Camouflaged in plain sight.
When the sliding doors opened I still looked for you. An old habit I suppose.
You would have been there, Standing, coffee in hand. Waiting for me with that dorky smile, Ready to scoop me up and take me home.
But now I get to watch everyone Wrapping their arms around the ones they love. As I walk through the crowded hall alone, Staring at the deflated balloons. Stuck on the ceiling like you are on my mind, Always present, but fading with time.
Puzzle of Self
Sidak Arora
Who am I? A question I ask in quiet nights, Beneath the twinkling stars' soft lights. In the world's chaos, just a mere pebble, Wondering if I'm just a composition, shaped by society's hand, Or is there more beneath, waiting to expand?
Like a Dahlia, I'm layered, petals unfurl, Revealing fragments of self, I ponder my true purpose, amid life's maze, In a world too vast, yet confined in its ways.
Like a puzzle, scattered pieces I find, Yet to assemble, the design of my life. In this paradox, I seek the light, At the end of the tunnel, shining bright.
Often I ponder, wouldn’t it be grand, To leap ahead to when I've the puzzle at hand. But then I pause, and question, Does clarity ever come?
Is life's true purpose an eternal quest, To evolve and grow, to be our best? Perhaps discovering new facets of me, Is what makes life a symphony.
It's not just reaching the end, but the journey's ride, That fills our hearts, that makes us feel alive. Let's embrace the unknown, find peace amidst the chaos, And cherish each moment, no matter how small.
we’re without Embee
everyone always tells me there's this funny way that I talk, it sounds like I’m short ofTime now and then I find myself omitting those little words, the ones we used all theTime but this habit blocks my mouth from your mind, a complete waste of ourTime I loved when we were the way we were, but I can’t turn backTime buried beneath my present, do you feel that tickingTime bomb? I hope I stay with you after all of thisTime I’m not ready yet, I’m in a race againstTime to put out your fuse, I need moreTime but I never had enoughTime maybe it's just ourTime Time
The Build Up and Tear Down Ardena Basic
10
1000
100000… Lives Reaching for you At you To you
Tearing you from the ground From the things that matter From the things filling you
With profound joy Deep love Light
10
1000 100000… Voices Screaming for you At you To you
Filing your tired head With the things that collapse With the things that crumble
10 1000
100000… Souls
Rooting for you At you To you
Trying to build you back up With the purest love With the purest hope
As you tear it down Piece by piece
10 1000 100000… 0…
ILLUSTRATOR CREDITS
Pickmeoutfrombetweenyourteeth
Thesongofdusk
Poppy-RedEyes tofindabalance
TheFaultsofaPoet
YouMisunderstandMyIntentions theauntidliketobe IfOnly thethingsiwishyoucouldsee ForgiveMe untitled futilenarratives
ValuetoYourCompany
TheBigResponsibilities Break!Break!Break! December19th
KaneeraUthayakumaran................
AshaJeejeebhoy-Swalwell
KaneeraUthayakumaran................
KaneeraUthayakumaran................
AamnaNaveed
MaraLi
KaneeraUthayakumaran................
“To write is to be eaten. To read, to be full.”
― Natalie Díaz, Postcolonial Love Poem