Eleven Rivers Review Vol. 8 (2022-2023)

Eleven Rivers Review

Volume 8

Fall 2022 - Spring 2023

James Cox

Eleven Rivers

Review

Palo Alto College Student Arts and Literary Journal

Volume 8

Fall 2022 - Spring 2023

Working Artist Spotlight

Octavio Quintanilla

Website: octavioquintanilla.com

IG: @writeroctavioquintanilla Twitter: @OctQuintanilla

The Eleven Rivers Review is an annual student-sourced publication that highlights the creativity of Palo Alto College’s diverse student community. Our name is a homage to the Texas rivers from which our campus buildings take their names.

The works selected for Eleven Rivers Review represents the views of the student contributors, not necessarily the views of Palo Alto College. All selections are printed with the permission of the authors and artists cited. Copyright reverts to the authors and artists immediately after publication.

Acknowledgements

The Eleven Rivers Review would like to give special thanks to everyone who made this issue possible.

Dr. Robert Garza, College President

Patrick Lee, Interim Vice President for Academic Success

Jennifer Scheidt, Interim Dean for Arts and Sciences

Elizabeth Ginn, Interim Department Chair, Fine, Performing and Communication Arts

Lisa Coronado, Interim Department Chair, English

PAC Fine Arts + English Faculty and Support Staff

Thomas Murguia, Director of Community Programs

Editors

Student Editors

President, Loretta SilverWolf

Jessica M. Hernandez

Amy Gonzalez Chavez

Dylan Chavarria

Staff & Faculty Advisors

Karen Mahaffy

Rita Ortiz

Gerard Robledo

Christina D. Flores

Jonathan Kang

Isabella

Jacob

Abigail Mcginnis

Gabrielle Rose

Nayeli Chairez

Tristan Hornberger

Andrea Zuniga

Stephanie Hinojosa

Dylan Chavarria

Ludwika Rios

Tyler Rader

Scarlett Gomez

Joaquin Trevino

Loretta SilverWolf

Sophie Diaz

Octavio Quintanilla by Dylan Chavarria

Madison Rader

Joaquin Trevino

Brent Hamilton

Maria Arreola

Andrea Zuniga

Martha Gonzalez

Bethany Alaniz

Peter Caliendo

Sophie Diaz

Jasslyn Mendoza

Esmeralda Amaya

Adrian Artiaga

Gabrielle Rose

Mia

Andrea

Isabella

Serina Mendoza

Ludwika Rios

Gabrielle Rose

Ysena Rodriguez

Scarlett Gomez

Dylan Chavarria

Nayeli Chairez

Brent Hamilton

Santiago Torres

Nayeli Chairez

Gabrielle Rose

Gabrielle Rose

Martha Gonzalez

Candy Vasquez

Wendy Smith

Joni Rodriguez

Kkashon Melendez Avilez

Giavana Perez

Aletze Saucedo Castellanos

Tyler Rader

Jacob Martinez

Andrea Zuniga

Karen Romero

Karen Romero

Sophie Diaz

Andrea Zuniga

In The Forest Natalie Daniel

Isabella Carvajal

Sing me an ode to sleep, to the spirit deep within the forests of pine & fir Lay me beside a creek the pyrrhic Of their small, quiet town. The saboteur. enterrez-moi dans les fleurs, let me rest. My graveyard of thoughts and dreams, a garden. Moss carpets the bones Mother Nature blessed, Until my muscles begin to harden. So that I may live amongst the wild things. May a fox call my overgrowth home. The work of maid, mother, & the crone bring pairs of birds to nestle in these ribs of my own. Bury me in my crown grown by crystal, Reclaim me, make me something mystical.

What is Family? Jacob Martinez

What is a family, you might ask me

It’s nothing you plainly see. A family is more than one member A group longed to remember It requires not just blood, but also love. Like the shine of the feather of a dove. Moms, Dads, Uncles, Aunts, Cousins, Twins, Daughters, and Sons. There are also friends you hold dear from the start. That’s a family. A family made in your heart.

Wonderland?

Abigail McGinnis

I remember expectations; taking on a role filled with responsibility. The responsibility of serving as your perfect form of aid, and then swallowing

My sanity, stepping off my horse, and reminding you to “Watch out, Dear. You cannot say everything and nothing at the same time.”

I remember being oh so dangerous; knowing that nobody could have stopped us.

Not me, not she, not even the Queen herself. The Queen! Who was there from the start, Giving out free decapitations.

Despite muted memories and soft-whispered secrets, I am still so in love with the idea of waking at noon and night, Only to find you needled in my darkest corner, Watching my face for security, Waiting, For something that will never arrive.

Monstera Leaves and Lotus Flower Gabrielle Rose

Cooking Chalk and Craving Dish Soap Nayeli Chairez

With a dizzy dance I staggered to the kitchen. Hunger screeched in my belly, my vision focused and unfocused, and my brain felt ready to pop. I rummaged drawers and ransacked the pantry desperately searching for something clean to consume, like dish soap. All I saw was a loaf of bread, peanut butter jars, and goldfish packs. My last meal was the correct serving of oatmeal and berries, topped with pumpkin seeds and coconut flakes. I sprinkled the flakes while I snapped a picture of it. The picture looked magical. The stale oatmeal had been microwaved with water and tasted gray in my mouth. Defeated, I looked above the pantry to see a small painting of the Last Supper, one of many that hung around the kitchen. The Last Supper. I thought about the big feast and the plump apostles nestled in, and the tragedy afterwards when vile forces seeked to purge the good. When did I turn myself so upside down that I began to purge the good? I used to pray before eating. Mami taught me how to thank God for the rice and beans, or the enchiladas and menudo we ate. Some dishes were a mixture so thick I think it would suffocate me if I tried to eat it now. Now, no matter how hard I try I can’t seem to remember how those prayers ended or how exactly they started. The information has been swiped with something else, I reach for a prayer yet pull out a recipe for cooking chalk. At some point between lucidity and remembrance I dropped a pan, or was it a few cups? They hit the floor with loud clangs that further drained me until I could only drop to the warm floor of the kitchen. The loud clattering should have woken someone up, I thought. Maybe they thought I was having a midnight snack. Slippers shuffling in the hallway broke me out of my trance. “Ay, mija. Que paso?” My mother’s worried face plastered like chocolate icing. A braver face quickly replaced it as she guided me to

a seat at the table where a bag from the panaderia rested on a bag of ranch doritos like a still-life waiting to be painted. The tabletop and chairs were decorated with turkeys and scarecrows, fake fall foliage was taped around the walls. Earlier was Thanksgiving, I remember. I tell her I don’t know what’s wrong, everything tastes like a picture. Mami patiently spoon feeds me potatoes and green bean casserole giving her thanks in silence.

Loneliness

Tristan Hornberger

Alone with thoughts that never waver, A world of words unsaid that spiral without remorse, A sense of isolation forever to encroach, A wonder of worth that has fallen too low,

In time those ideas will come to falter, With patience those unspoken words will have no source, And soon the world will join you in your reproach, A wonder of worth rising to the stars aglow. The haze of things left undone of a life unlived and a story unsung.

You fall slowly back into the abyss of thoughts as the sound of a bell is rung.

Hallow Andrea Zuniga

Feathered Serpent

Stephanie Hinojosa

Quetzalcoatl, Your feather flowing in your wind As you fly freely over us.

Quetzalcoatl, Your sacrificial sangre Awakened our Ancestors To Nahui Ehecatl.

Quetzalcoatl, Inhabitant of Nahui Ollin, Tlasokamati for your wisdom. Tlasokamati for you uniting us with Earth.

Quetzalcoatl, Pious priest, Creator of gods, Your whipping wind mightily motioned The sun and moon.

Quetzalcoatl, Just as you have planted Ceremonia, You are ceremonia.

Quetzalcoatl. Topiltzin. Ehecatl.

Teopixki.

A Portal Has Opened Dylan Chavarria

Selfie! Ludwika Rios

Oh, How the Guardian Fell Tyler

Rader

Oh, how the Guardian fell.

Oh, how fate workers law waste to the sanctuary. Praise be the Guardian that was, Remain silent for the Beast it became. Watch it bare its teeth as it screeches at the stars around.

Gaze upon its gilded eye as it surveys the ponds and galaxies.

Oh, how the Guardian fell. Oh, how zeal enchains the once sacred Beast.

Remain silent for the joy it once had, Bow down to the chaos in its wake.

Behind its eye is a crimson ring, Atop the ring is its silver crown.

Oh, how madness reigns in these resting grounds, sanity uninvited.

Oh, how the Guardian fell, encaged by the dead’s ambitions.

Oh, how sad it is that its dreamers waste away.

Oh, how sad it is that nowhere else is safe.

Oh, how sad it is that the sanctuary be betrayed by its own protector.

Oh, how sad it is that the Beast cannot be saved.

Oh, how sad it is that the Guardian was doomed to fall.

Geometrical Scarlett Gomez

Mirrors

Joaquin Trevino

People are like mirrors

In their facial expressions, actions and words. They have the ability to reveal the true nature of the world around them.

Wall to wall covered in mirrors, and who’s to say what they reflect is actuality and absolute.

People are Mirrors Reflective, Fragile, man-made, and introspective. As to what they can reflect is dependent on their outlooks, be it internal or existential struggles. Mirrors all around an inescapable fun house of reflection. I find it most bizarre when I find myself in front of one, two reflections cast in two different lights.

Mommy’s Little Girl

Loretta SilverWolf

I Am From Blood Sophie

Diaz

I am from smoke-filled air and throbbing joints. I am born of bloody love.

All blood is cursed with luck.

The prayers, faith, promises of my blood, A miracle for a thrice miscarried womb.

The three half-bloods have never halved their love.

Love only knows one form, For love is a circle.

Blood dictates nothing to those who open their heart. For the blood of the covenant is thicker than the womb’s waters. The scent and taste of handmade tamales fill my heart.

Overwhelmed by my senses, my eyes and tongue water, And my body is tantalizingly close to being sated. The rough, calloused hands prepare the ingredients, The softer,well-worked wrap everything together.

As stories and laughter swarm the smoke-filled room, Looking at my angels and am reminded of my creation.

I am from prayers and love, Smoke and joints,

The loved and lost forever live within. The voices of those seen and the unseen are divided by a barrier Despite a lack of understanding, they are heard. My history is so long lost.

It means nothing.

I am more than forgotten history.

I am bloody love.

Working Artist Spotlight

Octavio Quintanilla

Octavio Quintanilla is the author of the poetry collection, If I Go Missing, the founder and director of the literature & arts festival, VersoFrontera, publisher of Alabrava Press, and former Poet Laureate of San Antonio, TX. His new poetry collection is forthcoming from Texas Review Press in fall 2024. He teaches Literature and Creative Writing at Our Lady of the Lake University.

Memoria invisible 32

In Versos 11 Frontextos

In Versos 22

Interview with Octavio

Quintanilla

What mood do you usually find yourself in when creating?

It depends. Usually in a mood full of love for what I am about to do. I guess I’ve never painted while angry, or sad—never created anything this way. Although, these emotions often are part of the emotional autobiography of the work.

What does your creative process look like?

It’s a process that requires being in process about 90% of the time. If you were to visit my studio, you’ll see notebooks, canvases of all sizes ready to be filled with mark-making, paint, and words. And having these components ready is part of the creative process. However, I do try to dedicate some time to the creative act every day, but it doesn’t mean that I am committed to finishing anything in one day. As a matter of fact, most of my visual work takes days, sometimes weeks or months. And my writing—that can take years. When you are always invested in the creative act, there is no rush to finish anything.

What art movement are you most drawn to or take inspiration from?

I dig all sorts of art movements. But to name a few I really like De Stijl, Action Painting, Assemblage, and anything avant-garde, really.

For your work titled “Memoria Invisible 32”, how did you go about selecting your color palette?

For this Frontexto, the drawings came first, and so, in order to create a sense of movement, I decided to add color, in this case, two complementary colors—blue and orange. These colors got a bit diluted since I added a tad of water in the mixing. I’m usually thinking about, and applying, color theory in my work, which means, I also subvert it.

Spotlight Artist

By Dylan Chavarria, Student Editor

For the poem in “Memoria Invisible 32” did you pre-write your poem, or was it written on the spot?

For these short poems, I usually write them on the spot which poses some challenges. For instance, the challenge of getting text that feels new, or surprising. In some of my Frontextos you’ll see some crossing-out of text, and blackouts, which are evidence of my thinking in the moment.

Who inspired your literary work? Novelists such as Henry Miller, Dostoyevsky, Clarice Lispector, Cristina Rivera Garza, and Juan Rulfo.

What is your favorite poem you’ve written?

I have not written my favorite poem. My favorite poem is always the one I am about to write.

What wisdom would you like to pass on to growing writers?

Thanks for the implication in this question that I am “wise,” but I also like to think of myself as someone who searches for wisdom in others. I am not sure this will help, but I’d suggest for aspiring writers to make cuts, to make cuts in their writing and in their lives. By this I mean, cut words out that are not doing anything for the poem/story. And cut people out of your life if they don’t bring light into it.

Water Under the Grids Madison Rader

Planet Caravan

Joaquin Trevino

Burning, crashing through my broken mind, Shaking, breaking all I can’t unwind. Cold, sightless, and empty, Explode, into lifeless, tempt me.

Melancholy

Brent Hamilton

Where I Came From Maria Arreola

I remember waking up to my mother sobbing over the kitchen table, “he is not coming; we have to go.” Her voice broke and she looked at me like a baby bear lost in the wild. I was eight years old and I didn't understand what she meant. I went back to bed and laid down wondering where we were going and why my father was not coming back.

The next day, we packed a couple things and my uncle drove us to the bus station. Honestly, I was excited. I had never been in a bus or anywhere else outside our little town. I remember my grandmother’s blessing and my grandfather’s warm kisses as he caressed our heads, trying to keep a smile on his face with his beautiful watery blue eyes. Then the bus driver made the last call and we boarded the bus, took our seats, and waved goodbye as the bus backed up from the station’s parking lot…

…Everything was different; the city life was fast, and everyone ran around in a hurry, always worried about the time and how it was late for lunch, late for picking up kids from school, late for doing laundry and prepping dinner.

Then one night, my mother said she was coming to Texas to see what my father was up to and why he could not come back with us. My father had immigrated illegally to the United States to offer us a better life. Instead, we ended up following him and working to help him give us a better future. Anyway, that night my mother left and she said she would be back soon, but the next day the neighbor came and brought dinner. She said to go to bed and to lock the door. The next morning, she brought breakfast and told us to get ready for church. We did as she said and we walked alone to hear the mass

service. When we returned, our house was empty, we were alone, hungry and confused. Our mother and father had left and we did not know when they were coming back or if they were coming back at all. That evening, the neighbor came back and she said that mother had called. She had sent a money gram saying it was for groceries; she also said someone would pick us up and take us with her some time soon. We did not ask questions, we did as we were told, we sat there and waited, and waited and waited a little more. On the third day, we were surprised by my father who somehow had gotten a visa for us so we could cross and move over to Texas with him and our mother. That day is the day my life changed forever. I knew that life as I knew it was over and that everything was going to change as fast or even faster…

If I Were Kitana

Micro drama

Martha Gonzalez

Loud drumming begins, and suddenly it gets quiet; lights are adorning a downtown park. Lights up on Kitana; maybe she is fourteen, maybe 34, wearing an elegant silk cape that adorns her body. A DRUMMER sits behind a drum set at the back of the main downtown park at the end of the stage. Kitana is thrilled and motivated but tries her best to keep it together.

KITANA: It is late at night, and as we all know, crime never stops. No matter what time of the day it is, there is something probably happening; perhaps a person is getting murdered, or maybe a little child is getting kidnapped, or perhaps even another teenager with mental issues is planning to shoot up another school destroying the lives and hopes of many families. Or maybe you might be able to witness another immigrant family moving to this country with hopes and dreams to achieve great things only to end up separated; you might see those innocent children sleeping in cages, wrapped in foil paper. And if you look closely enough, maybe, just maybe, you will have a chance to stop it, but YOU ARE NOT KITANA, ONLY I AM.

(Lightsnaredrumming)

-And if you look closely enough, then maybe you can see how fucked up our government is. Maybe you can finally OPEN your eyes and see how every elementary school is unprotected with no police officers. Meanwhile, teenagers enter that school destroying many lives and ending the hopes and dreams of so many families. Maybe you can see how the government doesn’t care about this.

(DRUMS)

And if you go near the border, maybe you can see what I see: thousands of families escaping poverty and violence, risking everything they have to live the American dream only to get separated by the fake government that tries to “help us.” Maybe then

you can pray to be KITANA. Everyone respects KITANA. She is strong, powerful, and eager to stand up for her beliefs! KITANA is strong and doesn’t cry when she sees this news. KITANA doesn’t feel hopeless; she is a force to be reckoned with, so powerful, but I am not KITANA, nor will I ever be able to be like her.

(DRUMSPLAYLOUDLY)

If only I were Kitana, then maybe I would have a chance to change the world, but who am I? I am only another low-income Hispanic left with no voice, eager to scream but unable to make a sound. IF ONLY I WERE KITANA.

(DRUMSPLAYEDLOUDLY,THENSUDDENLYSTOPPED).

Selena

Bethany Alaniz

Hermanos Para Siempre Peter Caliendo

You laid there deep in the woods, the hole in your chest painting the dirt beneath a deep red. Your intended target, a dove, fluttered into the light as your vision faded. The tree root you couldn’t see, now visible in the disturbed mess of dead leaves, dark as the dirt, brown as the tree from which they fell. Your father’s gun beside you, soiled by the blood of one it was meant to protect. In the beginning there was a memorial, hundreds throughout the school dressed in blue in your honor. I remember that morning, standing in the foyer of that quiet church reading all the letters they had written. There were only a handful of us there, your closest friends, the family you chose. No words were spoken. Mr Aldrich, our English teacher arrived, he prayed over that closed casket, he shook your father’s hand, nodded knowingly at his students and left. I remember feeling angry in that moment, angry that he didn’t stay and show the support to his family that he had preached to us. The next day he cried in class, wishing he could have stayed, wishing his class had you still. A bright light, a kind soul, snuffed out like a flame in rain. You were just fourteen, the same age your sister is now, walking the halls that her brother briefly ruled his freshman year.

I remember the freezing rain that morning. We had planned to meet in the weight room early, we had to get fit if we wanted to meet our goals. Both of us dreaming of the Navy, maybe we’d be SEALs. I overslept, oh well. I would see you during lunch, we could skip the second half of fourth period and work out then. You wouldn’t make it to school that day. Your ribs smashed, your lungs peppered by the fragments like birdshot, your bleeding brain struggling to fight and stay alive. Three days later it would be assured, you wouldn’t be returning. Your wheels skated across that icy road, a road we were all too familiar with but felt foreign in that condition. It was another man’s car that broke your momentum, the bus sat there as

still as when it stopped, you hadn’t effected it in the slightest, yet two lives were taken and two families forever changed by a decision to brake. At that seventy miles per hour you never had a chance. You were just seventeen. How could you be expected to react? You tried, but who among us could succeed? Without that damned ice, perhaps it would be different. Maybe you’d be on that boat right now. I never made it, a cyst in my brain. I laughed at the time. “Poetic” I thought. “Pathetic.” I cried.

You were my best friend, you were my brother. We met the first day of high school and were inseparable after that. We were always lucky to have a class together, shenanigans and good times were always a guarantee. In the mornings we’d walk the school grounds chatting, in the afternoons we’d tease your girlfriend about how you and I made a cute couple. I remember the day we skipped lunch and fourth period. We walked the school talking life, dreams, futures and fears. Then that day came. Four years has passed. The day you died I was a broken man, part of me still hasn’t recovered. But I know that my pain can never compare to your parents, to your sisters. Did you know that you’re an uncle? I don’t know the gender, but I remember crying when I learned. You’d be so proud of your sister, so proud of her baby. We’ve moved on as best we could. Still the pain is there. We’ve tried to visit twice a year. The day you died and your birthday. I remember that first time we went, we had no real plan, just a heartache and a bottle. We walked in that hot August sun searching for you. When we finally found you we each shared a small tale, passed the bottle and took a swig. The cheap whiskey tasted worse than ever, after hours in the sun that amber spirit brought tears to our eyes as it burned and coated our throats. When we poured a final shot there on the dirt I half expected you to react and laugh with us about how awful that was. But that couldn’t happen. That relieved me. You had already experienced so much pain, why should you be subjected to that too? Then it hit me. What do I know of pain? What do I know of life, of death? I saw your pain, I saw you’re suffering. I don’t cry anymore. After all this time I’m glad you were set free. Now I only hope that we meet again. I hope we all meet again.

One Last Dance

Sophie Diaz

Everyday Gadgets

The Love of Chuparrosas

Esmeralda Amaya Arachnilusion Adrian Artiaga

The Eye Gabrielle Rose

Self-Fulfilling Prophecies Sophie

Diaz

Every day when I wake up, I live with the boulders that I am expected to carry. Forever balancing a never-empty cup,

Overflowing with words of a misspelled dictionary. They spill out of my mouth and into the minds of those I trust. For times better or worse, my mouth never stops.

The iron lever of my stonewall is sealed shut and covered in rust. I know I need to fix my locks, But the screech in my head demands to be heard. They will not fix my gate as it will only cause me pain. The words they speak convince me of the absurd.

I need not be silent nor wear these chains.

My cup never empty.

My truths I will spill.

I want not, for I have plenty.

Kneel before my unbroken quill.

May the river always flow.

As I bid you adieu from my one Woman show.

Sinister Mind Mia Mello

Diamonds and Spades Andrea Zuniga

Xiuhpilli Isabella Carvajal

The sunlight streaks through those beautiful brown eyes Soaking in those saturated sunbeams.

You look like you are drowning in liquid gold, You have become the only thing I want to hold.

My fingertips are cold, but you, Like the blinding sun –hover over me. You paint me into a golden glimmer that I may never wash out.

Wouldn't think to, I wouldn't want to. I am engulfed in you.

Rebel Ludwika Rios

Day and Night Gabrielle Rose

Day Ysena Rodriguez

Sphere Scarlett Gomez

I Am Alive Dylan Chavarria

I am Alive

I can see

I can Hear

I can feel just like you

But i can’t walk

Or talk

Blink or wiggle my nose

But I’m very much alive

And I’m always here.

I loved to listen to the songs

You’d sing

And play all the roles in the Games you played

It seemed like everyday

We played

Until the day you all went

Away..

No more songs

No more play

All alone I lay.

The seasons come and go

And the decay is ever so slow

Toys becoming moldy

Others rusting away

I wonder sometimes if

They’re alive too

But it’s not like we could ever say.

What once was my beautiful home

Is now home to ravens, crows and Roaches and bugs alike

And worst of all

The rats..

Oh how i hate the rats

First it was one

Then it was two

Now it’s three

And they won’t leave

They rummage all over

And screech all night

They close in around me

Sniffing and screeching

And all i can do is lay in fright

Until they reached my ear and took a Bite

Panic sets in as they drag me away

Where there was no light

They tore my ear

And chewed threw my stomach

So sharp and harsh tearing out my stuffing

This pain unbearable

I wish I could SCREAM

I wish I could RUN

I wish I could just move a little

..A cold breath washes over me and the world feels so far..

..I was alive

..I could see

..I could hear

..I could feel

.. And in my final moments I could shed tears..

Summer

Nayeli Chairez

Did you know that in the 1940’s lesbians wore pinky rings to identify themselves to other lesbians?

I layed out summer like paper and wrote love letters to you

Your windchime bony body built a house around mine

Our platonic love blossomed in the Texas summer heat

It even made treasure bling in parking lots where you found a ring

Which prompted you to propose to me there on the street at 15

But this ring fit not on my ring finger, thumb, or index

But on my pinky,

Summer has always been a life map to read.

Brent hamilton Bottom

I’m a wreck for losing you, The days are gone and slipped away. I’m a wreck for holding on, Even though I know you’d wish I’d go. I’m a wreck to those who see me often, From a distance and nearby they ponder. I’m a wreck as much as you were then, I understand now how you must have felt. I’m a wreck for wrecking our boat, Capsize to the bottom, to survive I let you go.

Lie down and release The worries for tomorrow

For today is rest

Nayeli

Chairez

Spring petals birth you A new life to enchant me

Still Life Gabrielle Rose

Bubble Girl Gabrielle Rose

Where are the Remains?

Martha Gonzalez

Even the most beautiful trees disappear; They vanish within this atmosphere

Even the most beautiful plants can be full of poison, just like those magic potions

Even the most beautiful love can fade away; Yet we still ask ourselves

where are the remains?

Even the most beautiful day fades away along with this dull wretch

There are no more beautiful trees

There are no more beautiful plants

There are no more beautiful emotions

There are no more beautiful days

Yet, we still ask ourselves.

What else remains

My Body Candy Vasquez

My body

If it was my body…

If it was body, why decide?

If it was my body, why did you take my right from me?

If it was my body, why did you touch it?

If it was my body, why did you shame it?

If it was my body, why do you get to look at it?

If it was my body, did you judge the weight of it?

If it was my body, why did you say my scars are ugly?

If it was my body, why do I need more makeup?

If it was my body, why do you get to judge

If it was my body…

But it is no longer was

It is my body, and it is my choice

It is my body so don’t touch it any longer

It is my body so you can no longer take it right away

It is my body so you cannot shame it

It is my body, and you will not look at it

It is my body so do not tell me I need makeup

The “Ugly Scars” are My body’s story

It is my body so I will do as I please with MY Body!

Texas Seasons Wendy Smith

When in school, we are taught about the seasons Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter

Texas seasons are a little different There is no rhyme or reason

Instead of four seasons, there are more Winter, Fool’s Spring, a second Winter, There’s the deception of Spring The third winter chills you to the core

Then there’s the season like none other The Pollen followed by actual Spring Next are two phases of Summer

The second has you crying for your mother

Texas enjoys a slightly milder third Summer So, when Fall finally comes around Nature is so confused about what is found Texas seasons are such bummers

The Healing Begins

Kkashon Melendez Avilez

Once the trauma bond and emotional attachments are gone true healing begins. I lost emotional attachment to him, without it he is so… Ordinary.

It was my love, my energy, my effort. That made him seem so special. That toxic cycle was always there, But each time I grew less and less fixated with… With the version I created of him. Kind… Gentle… Loving… He was never those things. Not… not with me at least, I did not want to live in his fantasy, His world of adversity, abuse, and constant misery Of what he thought was love.

I am tired of the blame, Tired of being shamed, tired of screaming in pain.. I want peace…

So, I passed the torch.

I am a nightmare healing from fear, open wounds, scars, I don’t hate you, I hate what I allowed you to do. after everything was said and done, I ended that chapter… Closed the books… and refused to open it.

I wish you the best... I will be better, I will heal. And you can’t hurt me. Ask me to explain how I feel about him…

It’s like he was never there, I see him, but as a stranger to the eye. I feel nothing, Am I healed!

Castaways Giavana Perez

How is it that you got me mourning this early in the morning?

“Blue” by Kali Uchis playing and I feel the click My emotions flow at a rapid point

My heart’s pounding reminiscing of your six feet

Will I reach the point again where I feel it’s okay for us to even speak?

It’s not fair how you run away from problems so coincidentally

You know this stuff hits me so raw

It’s never too late to tell me how you really feel But I know you’re too good for that

I’m going to let these words flow like a lost bottle in the sea of things that could’ve been meant to be

Because I’m on a road to happiness and success and I know you want the best for me but what’s the point boy?

I call you that because you don’t know how to communicate in the ways I do

Let me be on this island alone it’s my safe space

I’ll let your ship sail with peace

Joker

Aletze Saucedo Castellanos

You are the Joker, I am your Harley. You will smile, When I will cry.

Laughs and giggles, Messing with my mind.

You loved the idea of making me cry, While I love the thought of making you laugh.

I was your Punchline, your joke, your crime. You were my ticking bomb, my crowbar, my nervous laugh. I was your jester, You were the Prince.

We were the perfect partners in crime. A twisted Bonnie And Clyde.

The Promising Young Man, The Oversensitive Girl.

The Nice Guy, The Ignored Girl Who Screamed Wolf.

Time flies by, your presence has expired.

Fear turns to survivor.

A Painful Memory VS. A Happy Ending. A Queen VS The Clown.

A Joke between Friends.

An Unused card of 21.

You are the Joker, But I am not your Harley.

Elegy for the Time Children Tyler Rader

Nowhere between everything the Time Children live past the edge. Nonexistent. A dream shared by many without a world.

Gods they are like, the Time Children be. Create. Alter. Destroy.

Light to dark. Time Children go invisible. Marbles seen above. Each home to dreamers. Not Time Children.

Dark to light. Marbles go invisible. Time Children reappear. Without thought, only purpose. Create. Alter. Destroy.

Monsters they resemble, the Time Children be. Strange shapes. Many, many pieces. Tin mostly appendages. Shadows make the body.

Time Children make more Time Children. One is different. This child small and little tin. Mechanical arms it resembled. Main body hazy. Very hard to see.

Think and feel, this Time Child can. Very dangerous.

Watching marbles was their favorite. Sometimes dreamers visited. Very boring. Too familiar.

One time, visitors came. Very lost and confused really. Not dreamers they were. They only knew about their marble, unlike dreamers.

Very excited, Marble Watcher was. Other Time Children not care.

Marble Watcher make home for lost visitors.

Give visitors sustenance, they did.

Marble Watcher thought happy.

Other Time Children thought nothing. Only purpose.

Create. Alter. Destroy.

Visitors made little visitors. Many littles.

Marble Watcher fascinated.

Other Time Children not care.

One home become many. Home become town.

Town people call Marble Watcher “Ruler of Everything”.

Marble Watcher confused.

Other Time Children not care.

Building made around Marble Watcher. Fancy chair they sat on. Many people visit at once.

Ask for more, the people do. Marble Watcher gives. Marble Watcher anxious.

Marble Watcher feel pain. People killed Time Child together. People proud. Marble Watcher mortified.

Town now city. People made portal to different marbles. More visitors. People not listen to Marble Watcher. Say Marble Watcher want something it not want.

More dead Time Children.

People took dead Time Children tin and shadow. Mixed them all together, they did.

Made many teeth of tin, people made. Body resembled people, but made of shadow. People made new Time Child. Named it Abaddon, they did. Gave it thoughts, and wants, and feelings. Very dangerous.

Presented Abaddon to Marble Watcher, People did. Proud they thought Marble Watcher will be.

Marble Watcher could not look at Abaddon.

Marble Watcher saw family tree in Abaddon.

Limbs welded together. Bodies dismembered and contorted. Pain on warped faces. An abomination.

Marble Watcher fled.

People killed more Time Children.

Marble Watcher saw everything.

Marble Watcher sad. Marble Watcher Guilty. People love Marble Watcher. Marble Watcher hates it.

Time Child watched marbles again. Watched as other Time Children died and were reassembled.

Marble Watcher wanted to see dreamers. People began killing them, too.

Marble Watcher is last Time Child.

Time Child sad.

Time Child scared.

Time Child lonely.

Time Child lost.

Flight of Love Jacob

Martinez

I am a dove

And you are a raven

And though we are meant to be in love.

We fly as one

We nearly touched wings

We are never done

Black and White

It’s not the same

But it’s both dim and bright

With such a love as this, I can never deny it.

Two birds are a shining bliss.

We can say honestly, and with certainty, “Why fight this wonderful feeling?”

For our paths have crossed and become one for eternity.

What point is it to fight?

Search your feelings, Mon Cherie.

We’re birds of a feather, so magnifique. And so, let us take the flight of Love.

Lost Sight Andrea Zuniga

A Child’s Curiosity Karen Romero

A Child’s Curiosity

Karen Romero

”It’s good to be curious, it’s good to ask questions it’s good to go out and explore with intention adults take for granted what kids delight in like a shiny blue trinket or the way a fish swims curiosity can get the best of of a child they’ll ask why this and why that? and it’s good to be curious, it’s good to ask questions so give them an answer, help them discover encourage their antics, join them in fact let the child express, don’t suppress after all they are the leaders of tomorrow and what a great leader, a smart one at that because its good be curious and and ask lots of questions.”

Pretty Face Sophie Diaz

When I reached the end of my 13 years, Exhausted from attempting to keep face, struggling to maintain grace.

My ears ringing from my family’s cheers.

I always had to keep a pretty face.

Constantly beaten into my head, I need to look my best.

My mother always said to “present yourself to the world.”

I needed to be well-liked and well-dressed.

Though I tried and failed to keep my hair curled.

No longer seeing through my own eyes,

My mind is shrieking with what people may think.

Dressing my skin with a ‘perfect’ LIE disguise.

But I can’t breathe when forced to be seen. Can I shrivel and shrink?

Each day I faced aches of chronic pain.

So how much more pain before I can gain?

Off the Rail Andrea Zuniga