Literary Magazine- Insight 2020 by The Marquee

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Insight 2020

Literary Magazine Marcus High School Flower Mound, TX

2020 STAFF

Antara Bhinge Designer

Ethan Brunson Designer 6

Elizabeth Heare Designer

Myles Singleton Designer

Jayden Bassett Designer

Lacey Hayes Designer

Siddharth Jayakumar Aide

Shalina Sabih Editor-in-Chief

Corey Hale Sponsor

Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly. Langston Hughes Additional design help from The Marquee staff and additional advising from LaJuana Hale.

Fantasy p h o t o รฐ z a c h a r y Va n G u n dy

Celestial Trips poemðalannaReed

I gaze lovingly into the navy black sky. Its starry expression and moonlight stare Captivate my senses. I am blown away By Earth’s marvelous features. Within me a spark grows into a fire, A burning desire to write something, In a desperate attempt to capture the moment, To feel something in my writing again. The moon has an aura about her, Crying out into the night, “I have a life! I have a purpose!” She winks at me as she Exclaims this. She’s an inspiring figure, that’s For sure. The pleasantly cool breeze lifts my hair At its end and plays with it, letting it Drag across my happy-content face. Trees whisper their words of comfort in my Ears, and I feel bits of energy shoot through My nerves. My brain is perfectly calm, and Perfectly stormy. It gushes dopamine into My system, to my deepest, Hardest-to-reach emotions. I am electric, on fire, a hazard to anyone Who dares cross me. I breath in fresh oxygen, and out Tumbles all of my anxieties and pain. Nature is so under-appreciated. To make some measly, small teen feel this much, And go unnoticed most of the time, is such A shame. I whisper goodnight to my friends, the moon, the Wind, and the glittering night sky. I will soon be Back to say hello again.

“Fantasy” World p o e m ð m i ch e l l e G A LVI Z h e r n a n d e z

It sounds like a fantasy As it comes from both sides It creates a delightful Great abstract meaning With both Dark like night And light as day That will help the meaning That come as it was a sunset And leave as a sunrise. The bad and good unite As if it was fantasy Like a new foundation That inspired a new generation To see a gentle difference.

In a society with indifference To stop seeing people like blank canvas Like in the background Even though people come and ignore That they are around Because they are unsound And layered compound Human. Not simple But not complex The person reflect Like a broken glass reflects Just to end with the same misdirected Of a check Put in like a special effect But at the end day Both have the same display.

a r t w o r k ð h o l i e Tay l o r

12 photoรฐsarahUnderwood

Nature poemรฐvanessaCORDOSOhernandez

As I walk upon my front porch sipping on a cup of freshly brewed coffee I see the pink horizon enveloping the sapphire sky like a blanket and I get a sense of tranquility. Turing to the right I see These fantastically vibrant trees. These trees are like none other. They have colors of green, yellow, orange, and brown. I then slip into my own world and I begin to dance around the ethereal like meadow in blissful happiness

Choice poemðgrey

My mother Told me when I was very young To not fall in love It’s not worth it You’ll get hurt It never lasts I get it now, how scared she must’ve been But I was too young to notice To know What it meant to fall out of love. So instead, I was angry I was angry because my father loved The same way a warrior fought: With everything he had My father loved love My mother loved freedom And so I loved freely. I fell in love with clouds, and seafoam, and poptarts and skateboards I fell in love with girls that planted flowers And boys who spoke in music I fell in love with driving down the highway at night And the bleary lights of the gas station I fell in love with countless strangers and books and new pens. I’ve fallen in and out of love a million times Who knows what will and won’t last? Some things we can’t choose Some things we can - to love Passionately Freely Or not at all So I chose.

If I could be in a dream, I would choose to go back and time And meet you for the first time All over again. The way our eyes met While you watched me dance with my friends Across the room.

dream poemรฐmariaPedroche

The way you smiled And I got that feeling in the pit of my stomach. If I could be in a dream, I would choose to fall in love All over again.

ode to dreams poemรฐclaudeBilnov

Damned dreams forgotten in the night, Realities unspoken, imaginative light. Painting melodies on the stars, cars, clothes, pones, and roads, Lifting coincions men higher, ever-daring to be bold. Giving in every night, to a wind of wander. Saying so without fright, but a slight whim of thunder. The future is in the dreams, keeping us from under.

artworkรฐaliceBeck

M a s c a r a S l e e v e s

poemðclaireMcMahon

She wears white But dyes it black Once she starts There’s no going back Her eyes are sky blue But are turned to midnight With her rivers of makeup Running down her ruby cheeks Like streamers at pity party The day went so fast Her mind an answering machine on repeat She hates how her friends won’t last How they make her feel so much defeat Their cold manipulative claws Slowly impaling her with daggers of doubt But she looks into her reflection In the foggy school mirror And watches how cracks spread around her every flaw But her spirit glows Independence she has never known Spreads through her chest To the tip of her nose She rubs her eyes against the softness of her hoodie And smiles against the world While she wears her mascara sleeves Like beautiful battle scars From the war she calls life

The Mountain poemรฐalannaReed

The mountain breaks barriers with its cutting edges and furling fingers. Snow peppers the peak like melted cheese on a pizza. Ember green trees are freckles on the vast rock and the human eye gets lost upon viewing such wondrous majesty

18 photoรฐmatthewHeare

Oak Tree poemðkristenDrum

A jungle gym A heart’s arteries A frayed shoelace The arms of an octopus A satyr strumming a ukulele Green leaves painting the sky Weathered rope hanging, met by a tire An old, broken broom, sweeping the sky A chipped pail, barely collecting any rainfall Fairies flitting through the branches all year round A father, strong and protective against the harsh wind Small hands reaching up to climb the great, strong limbs A treehouse safely nestled in the branches, cradling the children inside Children laughing and flying through the branches like birds The ideas of a writer, growing into something incredible A historical library, documenting its own story Eggs resting among its leaves Birds making a family home Memories old and new Wisdom and knowledge Initials of lovers A bird’s mansion An embrace A teacher A friend Eternal

p h o t o ð j a s m i n e A l v a19 rez

Magic storyðgrey

There’s a place, just behind the field of tall grass and garden snakes that lies beyond the creek, that is magic. Peyton and I, old classmates and best friends throughout middle school, put on her mother’s blue polka-dotted rain boots and rode our bikes through the muddy field, ducking under loose tree limbs and wild shrubs with animals resting inside. Our laughter cut through the silence of the forest as we tried to keep the rubber boots from slipping off of our small feet and splattering mud across our calves. “My mom’s gonna be so mad at me!” I yelled to the girl in front of me, gesturing to the mud stains and dirt paint that patterned my new jean shorts. All she gave in response was a howling laugh and a finger pointing up ahead to where I couldn’t see. There was a deer sipping water from the pond. I had never seen one up close before-- the animal was so much bigger than I had imagined. Peyton grabbed my hand as we carefully set our bikes in the grass, and the most awestruck smile painted her features. Eventually, while walking closer to the animal, a twig snapped under her foot and the deer shot up, staring at us in panic before scurrying off beyond the trees. Peyton looked after the animal, long after its footsteps

were dissipated into the natural hum of the forest. I looked at her. Peyton was only two months older than me but she acted like a high schooler. She was smart and kind, funny and brave, and the coolest girl I had ever met. She was beautiful. And she was so beautiful that I couldn’t do anything but stare as she suddenly turned toward me, pushing me backward into the pond that sat at the end of the small rapids and waterfall. The water was freezing and my clothes were weighing me down as I quickly swam to the huge rock that sat in the dead center of the water, shrieking at Peyton all the while. She was laughing, laughing harder than I’d ever heard, and she shrugged off her shirt and pants (I don’t know if it made me feel better or worse) before jumping into the water, pulling her body into a ball that splashed me from across the pond. Her head popped up moments after, spitting water out and gazing at me from below as if I’d hung the sun in the sky. “It’s freezing,” I said instead of telling her that I think I might be falling in love. I stripped off my boots and socks, pulling my shirt over my head and tossing it on the smooth surface next to me. “Come back in, then,” she smiled and I couldn’t do anything but follow her voice into the water like a stupid sailor to a siren. We both looked at each other, sharing a small smile as we floated just a little bit closer. A little bit closer. I might be panicking. How can you tell if someone wants to kiss you? How do you kiss someone? Am I supposed to use tongue? Are twelve year old girls allowed to kiss each other? Is she even gay? “I’m not gay,” she said, quietly, looking at me with a face I didn’t recognize. “Yeah,” I said. “I have a boyfriend,” she said. I knew that already. His name was Ethan. I hated him. He was shorter than her and baked himself in Axe body spray and refused to hold her hand. He was missing out. I loved holding her hand. “Yeah,” I said. “But I really want to kiss you right now,” she said. “Yeah,” I whispered, “yeah.” And so we did. And it was awkward and clumsy and hard to tread water while simultaneously trying to touch every part of each other we could, because I

photoðnicolasDelamarter

think we both knew that this was never going to happen again. We were right. Peyton cried after that, for a long time, and she rode her bike home after hurriedly pulling on her clothes, not bothering to dry off first. She refused to look at me, but I couldn’t help but think about how pretty she looked still, water droplets hanging from her eyelashes and blonde hair matting her forehead where it started to dry in curls. Her tire tracks dried in the mud. I watched the rippling water for a while after that, the place where we kissed and the heat her hand left on my cheek. I had

never been held so gently before. She didn’t come to school the week after that, and a month later I heard from a mutual friend we shared once upon a time that she had to change school districts. I never saw her again. There’s a place, just behind the field of tall grass and garden snakes that lies beyond the creek, that I believe is magic. Sometimes I like to think that she believes in magic, too.

Soup storyðkane

At a young age I knew two things, I loved Harry Potter and I loved soup and pasta. One afternoon my grandma made me Campbell tomato soup with grilled cheese, every dip of toast into tomato soup was extremely satisfying. I would watch the tomato soup slowly absorb into the grilled cheese. The golden brown crust turning into a dull orange really put my mind at ease. But the way it made me feel when I put it in my mouth and swallowed, and the way it felt as it sat in my stomach. It was like a fire that didn’t destroy, but was soothing. As soon as it hit my stomach, it only took a couple of seconds for the warmth to spread all over my body. This made me extremely happy, this also made me feel really sleepy so I would ask for tomato soup and grilled cheese most nights. I had gotten pretty good sleep most nights after I at it. After that, my mom would always take me with her when she went shoping. We would always walk through the canned food aisle and we would walk past the soups. I was very imaginative, so I would pretend to grab the soup cans with my magic powers and put them into my huge bowl. I would stir and stir all of the soup in the bowl. At the end of the aisle I would stop and ask my mom to try my special soup recipe. Every time she told me that she loved all of the flavors, and said that I should open up my very own restaurant. I eventually made a name for it but I was more focused and how it looks. A can of soup. That’s what it was “just a can of soup with doors and windows”, I made a model of it using a knife and a can of soup. I didn’t clean it out that well and it started to mold and ants got into it, but I still loved it. My mom eventually threw it away but in my eyes it was a piece of art, and the ants were just little people coming to my restaurant.

Fishing poemðjackHanson photoðmatthewHeare

I think fishing is fun In nature and the sun I’d travel far And I’d travel wide But I’d never pay pay for a fishing guide It’s a whole lot of fun To catch a big one It’s not as enjoyable to fish in the winter It is way too cold and the wind is very bitter But it’s still worth it to fish with your friends They are people you will be with until the end

Japanese Poetry poemรฐalannaReed

A best friend of mine Smiles bright when she is herself. Think to do the same. Early in the Fall When the leaves turn brown like bark Life is quite lovely. Music is the flesh That binds our world together When all hope feels lost.

25 photoรฐmatthewHeare

Haiku poemรฐannieGiarratana

slow rush from meadow great beam within dark slit under over climbing waterfall stream run along grass pine breath evermore brush rain cover me night sun still depth little water hole

symphony

stepping out of my tranquil abode a soft misty breeze caresses my face rolling verdant hills greet my eyes p o e m รฐ r e g a n V e h r s the beautiful symphonic sound of the sea fill my ears oh how soothing yet so powerful steady magnificent waves enchanted drawn to the shore like being charmed by a snake crashing clashing against the sharp rocks below graceful lacy white hands reach up from the water up to the sky oh how powerful yet so soothing oh how graceful perfectly orchestrated by the moon my tranquility

25 photoรฐelizabethHeare

My Self p o e m รฐ m i ch e l l e G A LVI Z h e r n a n d e z

As I walk by the red desert I hear the crunching of the ground As I try to find my self in silence During the lovely sunset In a rainbow rock With significant signals As A sad blue, Danger purple, Happy yellow, Confused orange And a mad red In. a complete silence I find it . I find my self.

Sunday Mornings poemĂ°reganVehrs

The smell of spluttering, sizzling, searing butter fills my nose. filling me with joy, from my head to my toes. i walk into the kitchen to see grandma making my favorite, a hot plate stacked high. ravenously hungry, ready to savor it. i placed two hot fluffy cakes onto my plate straight off the griddle. grabbing a fork and knife, then going to sit at the old familiar table. i spread soft yellow butter across the top, then pouring the syrup; preferably maple. digging my fork in and taking a big chomp. the bite of pancake dances across my tongue. so sweet, so savory, my heart sung! i cleaned my plate clean of crumbs and washed my dishes. then going to give my grandma a big hug! iâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;ll never forget that familiar smell of that spluttering, sizzling, searing butter. i know grandmas in the kitchen. making pancakes, matching no others!

Unspoken poemĂ°andreaAntonellis

Him and her walk Havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t said the three words yet But they know they do.

Love Doesn’t Exist poemðdarbyDenkhoff

“love doesn’t exist“ a fact i’ve always known but I can’t describe the feeling i get when i see you “love doesn‘t exist“ but I don’t know how to get rid of the feeling in my stomach when you talk to me “love doesn’t exist” but maybe i’m wrong

p h o t o ð z a c h a r y Va n G u n dy

the bicycle poemðvanessaCORDOSOhernandez

Training wheels Pink streamers Basket filled with wildflowers The little girl cruises down the street, end of innocence. Girl falls off of bike can’t get her wheels off yet. Childhood still isn’t over. One more year she tells herself.

photoðmatthewHeare

Rain to SHINE poemรฐjenniferBarnes

Water on my face, Storm clouds are above me now, Waiting for rainbows.

Bizzare

Crimson Dreams and Violent Nights storyðmiguelElliot

It was a dark night, quiet and still, trees swaying against the soft breeze creeping into town. The still silence was suddenly broken by the disrupting sound of spinning tires hitting a rocky, uneven road, consistently. As the peculiar noise swells up, I jolt awake out of my bed and fall on to the floor, grasping for breath. Catching my breath, I hear the ringing of my doorbell that sets me on edge once more. I run to the door and let my mom in, who is evidently tired from her long day at work. She walks inside, sets her bag on the hall tree, gives me a side hug after a hesitant thought, and leaves back out for her second job. I took comfort in our short conversations, as we just learned to deal with each other over the past few years. The Alvarez family was not only far separated, but complicated with

artworkðmaggieKu

conflict at every level in our relationships. She’s not my mother, not anymore. Ana has lost that right. Tyler, my younger brother, enters the living room carrying his blue carebear, which is hanging on by the threads. He tugs on his corduroy pajamas and slides into his oversized camouflage slippers. He’s hungry, I thought. That’s the only reason why he ever comes out at night. As his stomach growls, mine queases with pain. An overcooked tv dinner ready to burst. A pot of water, filled to the brim with guilt and anxiety, ready to bubble over. Nevertheless, I set the table and pour a bowl of noodles for Tyler, who savagely inhales them. I’m a terrible sister, I think to myself. No, I’m a terrible person, I realize. Constantly bypassing my morals, in place of my selfish desires. I had just wanted to leave this place. Replace my broken family with social friends, the ones I choose not burdened with, the ones I can love with romance. Tyler walks in the living room towards where the television sits, and I bring him another bowl of soup. He starts to play with the strings of noodles, watching Wile E. Coyote chase roadrunner on the screen. He sets the plate down on the ugly light brown carpet and sits down criss cross, applesauce to eat. Ana doesn’t allow people to eat on the couch. Or in the living room for that matter. But I let Tyler do it because I know he can’t see well, even if he loves the cartoons. I grimace as I feel the irony in me, instilling my younger brother with disobedience. I should know to follow the rules. I know the consequences all too well. Boom! My heart drops, the weight of life compacting fear unto my soul. The chemicals clouding my mind clearly suddenly, like a nimbus after a long day of rain. I am the driver of my life, not just the silver Lexus I sit in, frozen in time. There wasn’t a living soul that had

known what happened last night, but mine. A heavy burden weighing on my shoulders I will have to live with the rest of my life. I grasp my chest and start to pace the room. My heart feels like it is going to burst out of my chest “Alien”-style. Seventeen years old and I’m already having heart problems. I probably won’t live much longer anyways, not that I deserve to. The existential hierarchy in the clouds have painted a target on my back, ready to pull the trigger and send volts of lightning down my brittle spine. Maybe I’m better off dead, buried several feet underground. At least I’d get a proper burial. Many don’t have that luxury, I think while my nerves tremble as I recall how I spent my morning. My hands shake uncontrollably as I unlock the trunk and exit my car. I walk to the trunk swaying, a drunken ballerina attempting a pirouette, and end up on the ground five feet away, vomiting into a nearby bush along the side of the road. The world begins to spin as the emotions poured over me. The realization of what had happened washed over me in another wave of the tsunami the night had been. Get it together, Vanessa! The violent stages of my early life feel like a precursor to the level I’m at now. I had been taught to pretend everything was okay while the flames burned around my innocence, inevitably killing my inner youth. “At least my father taught me something,” I mutter softly as I bring myself up, wipe my mouth off, and carefully make my way back to the car. I open the trunk cautiously, and pull out the body. You can’t go to prison, Vanessa. You’re not like him, you’re better. You didn’t mean to do it, I tell myself. Deep down inside, I knew that wasn’t true. The ring of the doorbell jolts me from my inner thoughts. Tyler looks at me and hurriedly gets his plate out of the living room, dashing to the kitchen. Something’s not right, as Ana isn’t usually home for another five hours on Friday evenings. I peered out the peephole, curious to see who the summoner would be, terrified of who would greet me on the other side. What I discovered wasn’t the police, like I truly suspected,

but a dark gentleman clothed in black rags with a silk shadowed hood on. He smiles, I could only tell because I could see the whiteness of his teeth. Mesmerized, I knew exactly who this was. I needed to open the door. I needed answers. Am I a murderer, or has life given me another opportunity to make right? I pray to all that’s good, as I open the door to a potential predator, ready to prey upon the Alvarez family. The wickedness of my crimes has caught up to me. And it was time to face judgment. We sat at the dinner table, which had been unused by our family for some time now. The man introduced himself as κρίση, pronounced krísi in his raspy voice. Dirt and drool ran out he mouth. Smiling, he looked to the right, where Tyler sat evidently terrified. He looks back at me and points at the glass of water I had poured for him. I nod, a push the cup to him. Before I can pull my hand back, κρίση quickly grabs it and clenches it hard, pinching it to the table. Tyler shouts and runs at κρίση, and κρίση withdraws a bloodied knife from his black cloth. The blood on the knife is wet. “I can do it for you,” κρίση says in a raspy bunch of separated words. Still silence, a storm brewing on the horizon, a downpour imminent. “Family!” κρίση shouts. “Don’t touch him!” I yell furiously. κρίση takes the knife and impales my hand, sending flaming sparks through my bones, the pain rising throughout my body out of my mouth, where I scream harder than I ever have before. Tyler sails and cries, while I attempt to stay conscious. “Judgment is here. Sit!” κρίση demands. “The gods are not done with you yet. An example must be made.” I gather my wits, what little I had left, I pleaded with the strange man. “I’m so sorry. Please, just let Tyler live. Let my brother live!” I beg. κρίση looks at me and smiles, a deep gargled laugh rising in his throat. “Teach him, tell him what you did,” he exclaims.

Papa poemðevelynnSingleton

The man who raised me Was not perfect Far from it, in fact Very far from it He had a temper shorter than a dwarf Getting angry for seemingly no reason Not appreciating a single thing that was supplied But I still loved him When I lived with him, I thought he could do no wrong I was always with him, the grandchild of God. His shaggy beard and flimsy glasses looking at me With love and care, for reasons I still can’t fathom If he knew who I was Who I truly was inside He’d hate me He would not want a child like me When I moved out, I still saw him the same I did when we left But time passed I grew up I realized the thing you’d become Despite me knowing the monster Despite the fear and anxiety I face with you Every time I see you, it could be my last I still care

Fire poemรฐkristenDrum

Fire is a great paradox It destroys, It devours, It kills and leaves no survivors. Yet at the same time, It warms, It purifies, It holds incredible beauty. It lights the way for unsteady feet. Without fire, We could not survive.

p h o to รฐ j a s m i n e A lva r e z

p h o to ja s m i n e A lva r e z

photoรฐkristenSullivan

Ageless Trees poemรฐnickRice

Ageless trees See all through thick and thin Will never conform to the wind Death draws nearer Life comes to an end Sun vacates open space Where the moon rushes to fill its place Roots scavenging for water Yearning for a taste Night creeps in Just another day Just another waste

Playground story and photoðcaitlynKinder

“Come out, come out wherever you are...” I hug my knees a little more tightly and press my back into the metal. The afternoon is obnoxiously humid, but tucked underneath the stairs in the shade of the bigges slide, I shiver. “You know you can’t hide forever.” There is noise; mostly I hear my classmates laughing as they play four square and talking as they push one another on swings, loudly enough so they can be heard by the other who swings into the sky or bounces a kickball. But the loudest noise is the snap of wood chips under pretty white converse as they circle the slide. Louder yet is the giggle of a girl on the prowl. I hold my breath and squeeze my fingers so hard around my knees that my mood ring leaves a detailed indention in my skin. If my eyes were open, and if it weren’t so dark under here, and if I didn’t already know, I would check to see what mood I’m in. But my eyes are closed, I am in the dark, and I know exactly how afraid I am. I wait, and I wait, but I can’t hear the crunch of the sneakers anymore, or see them when I open my eyes. I unglue my back from the slick, sweaty metal of the stairs and rub the goosebumps out of my arms in the dense shade of the slide. As I shuffle around in the tight space, the top of my tall sock slides down and I stare at the angry red bite mark on the back of my calf. That was an unpleasant gift from Tommy on Monday. I thought it would have gone away by now. I reach to pull the sock back up and suddenly I am dragged by the ankle out of my hiding spot, into the sun. My favorite plastic headband is ripped from my

hair and woodchips scrape my shoulder blades. But the worst part is that I forgot to wear bloomers today, and my skirt is flipped up, exposing my bony legs and Hello Kitty panties. I scramble to my feet as Christa finishes adjusting my pink headband in her shiny hair. “You’re not very much fun” she pouts. “You’re supposed to start running.” “I don’t like running” I whisper to her pretty white converse as I tremble and clutch my skirt. “I’m not

very fast.” “You’re not a lot of things. I’d run now if I were you, because I am fast.” stands. A game I will always lose. The nurse finishes, taping a large gauze to my shoulder and giving it a pat. “Alright, dear. It’s clean and it looks like you won’t need stitches this time, but you got lucky d’ya hear?” She hands me gauze and tape for the road. “Now, it’ll still bleed, but it should clot up soon enough. Thank-

fully this wound wasn’t so deep.” And she sends me back with a note for my teacher. How little she knows. How little she knows about my relentless stream of torment from an assortment of assailants. The cut may have been surface level, may have been treated, possibly even healed. But the wound, I know, even now, continues to dig ever deeper, ever wider every day. *** Grown-up now, most of the scars from my lunchbox days are gone, but not forgotten. The scars that cannot be seen are hidden just beneath the surface. It’s dusk. I finger the chain of a rusty swing as I walk beneath the swing set. My touch sets the swing into an eerie sway, a metronome of deep groans which grieve for a past life, where children laughed and talked loudly. I walk away from the lonely swing, still creaking out to me before retreating, more softly with every pass. Finally it stills, save for a slight wind whistling through the chain and disturbing the seat once more. I continue my steady pace forward. Up the rubber stairs, over the arched bridge, up to the best vantage point, by the fireman’s pole and the plastic slide. I squint out into the darkness. I can make out the swingset, which sits near the light, but the monkey bars are beyond my visibility. If I were afraid of the dark, this setting might intimidate, even frighten me. But I’ve spent too much time in the darkness to fear it. Rather, I recognize myself in it. Slowly, intentionally, I screeeeech my way down the shadowed, curvy slide. Crunching down on the wood chips below; my left shoulder aches as it recalls a long removed affliction. I step further into the darkness, approaching the metal slide. Wood chips snap beneath my keds as I circle the metal slide. I see dirty white converse sticking out beneath the stairs of the slide. She was never as small as I was. I circle the slide. “Come out, come out, wherever you are...” I croon, knowing full well that she couldn’t move even if she had the nerve to.

“You know you can’t hide forever.” And I grab her ankle, dragging her from beneath the metal slide. She whimpers as the ground scrapes up her back. “Emma… I’m- I’m so s-sorry. I d-don’t remember what I did but I’m sorry.” “You’re not very much fun.” I pout, an echo from a recent past. “You’re supposed to start running.” She scrambles to her feet, a woman, clothes soiled from the mulch. “Emma, please…” “I’d run now, if I were you.” She takes off into the dark. And I understand it all now. The rush. The surge of power, of control. The flood of savagery. It’s the way the sneakers slap, laces untied, the cap of each string flicking the pavement until pavement blurs to dirt and roots crunch underfoot. It’s the way the air rakes the lungs, reaching as though to grasp the ribs and yank the entire body inside-out. Uncomfortable and yet… exhilarating. It’s the way her arms pump wildly, the way her gasps disturb the crisp, steady air, the way her head whips around, hair tangled, eyes huge and white in the darkness, to gauge my progress against hers. It’s the way I draw closer and my wrist, palm, fingertips extend desperately toward the shoulder shuddering inches before my reach until— She is pinned beneath me. “No, no, no...It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. Emma, EMMA” She implores me. “I WAS ONLY a CHILD. Please PLEASE” she sobs. I bare my teeth over her in the darkness. “Well, you know what?” I huff between crazed breaths as she struggles and writhes beneath me. “Life isn’t fair. Someone told me that once when I was whining.” The scars inside smile. The wound, deeper than the sea, darker than the night, roars its approval as I avenge the small child who once quivered here. Christa squirms again and I grind her wrists harder into the wood chips. “This is my playground. And there are no rules.”

Chaos poemรฐjoseBarbosa

Silence Minds racing Emotions conquering reality Silence is overwhelming All that remains Is chaos Chaos

photoรฐshreenaDesai

photoรฐsarahUnderwood

46 artworkรฐ

Man VS His mind poemðjackHanson

I am consistently inconsistent my thoughts are shattered changing my mood with the slightest bump in my path all these voices fighting for the chance to take over and sit in the driver’s seat everyday is like an unclear dream As if I’m watching my life happen to someone else every moment is confusing and uncomfortable trying to focus is harder than bending a steel bar with my hands I hear my brain screaming at me for no other reason other than to scream Am I crazy No I can’t be Crazy people don’t think they are crazy But god it’s like little green men climb through my ear and into my brain while I sleep Slowly invading my mind and taking over It wasn’t always liked this I used to be me Think clearly Enjoy things Talk to people like a normal person not as though I’m writing a script with ways to speak and communicate But that’s not me anymore I must be sick Yeah YEAH I’m not crazy I’m just sick Sick in the head That’s all it is Wait It’s the little green men Why else would I think they are there They must be real They are making me sick I need to get rid of them They must hate something

Untitled stor yðshreyaParimal photoðshreenaDesai

“Why, why me? You, of all people, could find a more beautiful muse.” He didn’t speak for a moment, pausing to lift his brush from the canvas to ponder. “I could, if that’s what I wanted. That’s not what I wanted to do though, not with this. I don’t want to capture beauty or pain, not anymore. Too much art exists of sunrises and sunsets, but never any of the noonday sun. I don’t want to paint something so striking that I can’t look away. I want to paint something no one cares for. No one takes a second look at the noonday sun.” She took a moment to consider his words. “Fair enough. But why do I matter?” “You’re not particularly beautiful, nor are you rather ugly — you’re utterly forgettable. Like a drift of the wind, a shadow in the dark, a passerby in a crowd of strangers.” He continued painting, stroking the canvas in dark, grey, strokes. “To me, or anyone else, you’re no one. Nothing. So simple, yet so complex. Base emotion plays on your face, clear as day, but the depth of that emotion is something hidden, something unmentionable. Your own mirror couldn’t capture your intentions.” She shifted slightly, tilting her head to pose another question. “And this painting will?” “Well, no. I don’t want to capture your likeness. I’m trying to capture something forgettable before it, and you, fade from my memory.” She glanced over at the palette upon which he was mixing paint. A crimson red, a deep blue, and a pearly white. She wondered what part of her essence he would paint. Upon seeing her indifferent face, however, he added. “I’m sure you’re a lovely person. But to paint you as accurately as possible, I need to view you as a stranger,

just someone I’ve seen once and already forgotten. You shouldn’t matter. At least, not in this context. She nodded in understanding, seeing his point. It was refreshingly rare to meet a man who valued not beauty nor tragedy, but simple normalcy, and even more rare to find an art student doing such. “Tell me this, then. Art is so subjective; you could paint me in any way you’d like. Why stay true to form? Why pretend as if I don’t exist, why not just paint me as I am?” On hearing this, he stopped painting completely, pointing at her to raise another point. “I could be subversive, that is true. I could “break the mold” like so many new artists, like so many “professionals”, but it’s irony. Why break the mold only to fit into a bigger one? This new genre of “different” art is simplistic. I could categorize all of new art into people imagining that what they’ve created is, in a sense, different.” He picked up the palette once more, eyeing the way the light played upon the shades of her skin. She followed his gaze. “I suppose that’s a valid thought -- but that’s why you’re here, and not in some exhibition, hm?” He laughed, a light sound. “My... opinions… are not exactly widely held. But we are in New York, after all - the city of dreams. Maybe one day I will.”

Counting poemðfaithLandis ar tworkðkaitlynWolgamot t

One a word I can’t write in a school notebook a selfish,borderline psycho carelessly attacking the ego of the beloved a word I really can’t write in a school notebook Two a word used too often head to toe beautiful harassed by eyes looking for the only curve visible through an oversized t-shirt a word used way too often Three a word used carelessly overactive and fake oh we believe she’s sad we just don‘t believe she should be genetics don‘t matter and wounds are physical they use this word carelessly She is a girl digging through the trenches of judgement but shovels are heavy and she hasn’t quite found her way out yet

50 p h o to รฐ j a s m i n e A LVA R E Z

Inverse Life poemðjaydenBASSETT

what if up was down, dark was light, and white was night. love is hate, tears were fears, and smiles were heartbreaks. what if the sun was blue, orange seas collapsing in on me. thunderstorms were flashes of darkness. deep silence makes your ears ring. drowningdrowningdrowning. what if jesus is a man who can’t breathe. can’t sleep. hearts don’t break, they m e n d. hearts don’t beat, they skip

flying fish. catfish, dogbird, seahorse. i heard that love is purple, red is sadness, god is one of us. earth is moon, moon is sun, and the sun isn’t real. flat moon society. why me, why please? noses run and feet smell. i see, eyes see, wind roars and lions breeze. summers are cold, like the lies of my past. winters are warm like my own breath. as comfortable as my heart, as unfamiliar as my mind. welcome to this house of horrors. bees are blind and love buzzes. trees are patience height. welcome to this inverse life.

Childish Adultery poemðhunterFields

Under a broken mask of lies Holds a rainbow Babies born with rainbows in their eyes, Rainbows that will eventually disappear Why should that beauty disappear? Because that’s what is expected To grow grey and normal, Even down to crying tears of grey, Hoping for a day that isn’t so grey. A rainbow? A rainbow holds imperfections and memories Between swirled lines Swirled lines that hold no boundary Nor lackluster An eternal rainbow. But what is this? A gray streak? There is no gray in a rainbow UnlessYou’re just like them. I guess it was going to happen eventually A burnt out rainbow Like clockwork To become gray and dull, All like the rest of them.

52 photoðmalloryStoe-

I Don’t Really Care storyðloganLott photoðemilySavoy

Life as a teenager is hard. I don’t know if it’s just hard for me or hard in general but it’s hard. Right now I’m writing this in the drive-thru at McDonald’s at 12 o’clock at night. This night couldn’t have been better. We went to a haunted house and hung out with all my friends, but my mind finds ways to make a great night crappy. I over think I wonder if I make people happy, I wonder if people are telling me the truth, I wonder if what I feel is really what I feel. I think too much. People say this is just a taste of real life but what if this isn’t what I want. What if I want more. What if I want everything I do to have meaning. I mean does anything have meaning? I’m writing a paper for a class I didn’t sign up for while I could be kissing my girlfriend or jamming to music. But will this paper have meaning? This is a question I really can’t answer. Why do I feel the need to have validation? Why do I feel like I’m not loved? Why do I question anything? I really don’t know if I’m making sense or not, but I think I am and I think I’m being kinda deep right now ( I’m probably not). I guess moral of the story is life is kinda crappy, but I think it gets better. I saw this video that compared life to the making of wine. How God crushes us and puts us under pressure (us being grapes) to become wine. I don’t really know what that means for me, but I think it’s kinda cool. I try to be smart. I try to be the smartest person in the room. I legit woke up today and told myself I have no excuse to be anything less than the best me I can be and now I end the day driving home from hanging out with people I really don’t relate to or like at all. So once again…what is the point?

Crystal Pool

poemรฐannieGlarratana

I traveled into a dream misty memories, reminisced thoughts ascending into dreamland descending from mainland falling into, out of Here a crystal pool dream makers have made me sit I stare at the lavender, vibrant pink water Darkness, emptiness, nothingness falling someone sits beside me face unrecognizable, a boy. falling a steep circular abyss between us Sparkles glaze outside the water up above, a beam falling, awake.

photoรฐmatthewHeare

Charybdis poemðsanskritiDwivedi

oh traveler! heed my words under the sea I stay lying sleeping hibernating until the time when some unlucky trespasser comes knocking upon my door Stay Away! if you rouse me I shall put you to sleep eternally don’t come disturbing my dreams lest you wish to see yours never fulfilled don’t unsettle my waters for this is my kingdom with my rules here a single splash is a crime punishable by death

oh! but of course I forgot you’re a Human and Humans never change they never learn so when you do decide to come and gawk at me make sure you are nice, fat, juicy after all I am very very hungry.

photoðkaeliAlpha

INK

photoรฐmatthewHeare

poemรฐsanskritiDwivedi

Blood on snow Cereal splattered on the ground Stars in the sky Broken glass Dust on a car A freckled face The spoils of war Stuttered speech Cursive lines Seconds ticking by A scrape on a knee

Crosswalks Sketches of people Lined paper Feathers on a bird Sand on a beach Dew drops on grass The harsh clacking of a typewriter Sweat rolling down a back Lies and the truth (Honesty and deceit)

Terror

The Boy

storyðryanLaFollete

“Robinson, Johnson. Age 12. Date and time of departure: The 26th of January, 1961 at approximately 13 o’clock.” The coroner loosens the veil on the young boy and readys a scalpel to cut the flesh of his abdomen. He uses a single blue lamp to light the cramped room. Darkness falls on everything but the remains. “13 o’clock?” An older couple sits several meters away, facing the coroners back. They are not aged by time, but by stress, loss, and grief. The woman is bound to view her boy dismantled at the insistence of his relentless father. She sobs quietly into her lap now, but it was not more than 30 minutes ago that they had to tie her wrists to the chair to keep her struggle in check. “We must go,” her husband told her, “we cannot trust anyone with John, not again.” Her husband now sits still and dead faced. He can’t help but notice the grime and filth that lines the walls, and the tight and disorganized manner in which the room is laid out. He asks again in a serious tone “13 o’clock, sir?” The coroner turns to face them. He is clad in nothing more than an apron and a makeshift metal respirator mask. “12 o’clock, Mr. Robinson. 12.” The coroner turns back and grabs the corner of the veil. Without hesitation, he lifts it off, revealing two gouges where eyes used to be. Between them, stretched down from forehead to mouth, lies an upside-down cross, cut so deeply into the boy’s face that the skin lays uneven. Incoherent symbols are scrawled down his neck and onto his chest, along with a line of makeshift stitching that reaches down to his stomach. The boy’s heart pulsates.

60t o ð j a s m i n e A l v a r e z pho

The coroner places the scalpel down and pierces the boy right above the stitching. A thick black liquid oozes out. “No, he’s moving! He’s bleeding he’s not dead!” The woman struggles to break the bounds of the chair, but ropes dig into her wrists and press against her veins. She is met with silence

at first, but as she pleas more and more, she is quieted with a bruising slap by her husband beside her. “Shut up and let the man work.” The blade drives into the corpse’s chest and undoes the stitching, each one popping like the pluck of a string. The woman again cries and begs for him to stop, trying to be louder than the symphony being played on her boy’s cold body, trying to be more fierce than the hand that feeds her. The meticulously worked stitching becomes sloppy, and far apart. It’s obvious the final ones were done in a hurry. The song continues. The coroner saws away at the concluding stitch, the pop is loud, a violent crescendo, an abrupt end to the horrific tune. He grabs the boy’s chest and pries it open. Just as he does, a bloodied and mangled raven flies out of the cavity in which once held the boy’s heart. The woman howls and bellows, the man does nothing more than stare in silence, watching the bird haphazardly fly around the crowded room. It hits a wall and just as quickly as it flew, it falls. The room goes silent. The three occupants all gaze at the bird, backs turned to the lifeless corpse it came from. The bird’s mouth foams, it’s bones twisted from trying to flee for so long, a piece of a human heart is still stuck onto its beak. The stillness breaks as a shrill scream is let out by the woman. The coroner turns around to see the boys carved body eye level with him. Long, black, triple jointed arms reach from the boy’s chest cavity and onto the ground, holding him up several feet in the air. Its face looks like a human mask, expressionless and limp. The coroner steps back as the cross begins to fold up and out, revealing endless rows of teeth and a pit of nothingness. He makes an attempt to flee, but is bested as the

boy’s body crashes down onto his. It hooks onto his head like a leach. A black fluid surrounds and dissolves him. His flesh is broken down, and sucked in by the monstrosity. The woman wails in sheer fear, yet the man beside her is silent. He stands up in an unnaturally calm manner and begins to move towards the door. “Don’t leave me here!” She screams. The corpse turns around, grotesque half dissolved remains lie at its feet. It steps to the man with great stride. Just as the man grabs the door handle, one of the arms reaches out and grabs him, and pulls him into his chest cavity. It seals and the stitching is resewn as the man is horribly contorted to fit. It is in this moment that the man finally lets out a scream. He’s silenced as the final stitch closes. The corpse pulsates and quakes, and then after a few moments stops. A single feather falls through the space between the stitch work. The corpse turns and now sees the boy’s mother. Her voice begins to go out, her tears blinding her. She struggles to get up, but the rope tear open her wrists. She struggles so hard she hits bone. The body does nothing more than stare. As her struggle dies down, and her energy depletes, she falls into a darkness, overtaken by a horrific presence of anxiety and worthlessness, her eyes close. After a few moments she reopens her eyes to see the body standing, as if waiting for orders. “I DIDN’T MAKE YOU, YOU DON’T KNEEL TO ME” The boy’s body now stands over her. “You let them take me. You let them do this to me.” The woman closes her eyes again, but this time she will not reopen them. 61

My Nightmare poemðandreaAntonellis

I fell into a nightmare Not scary but sad This familiar stranger was there I called my him my dad His hair was white And he was no longer tall I knew who he was all right But I didn’t know him at all. It was as if I had missed Thirty years of his life He couldn’t recall the last time he kissed My beautiful mother, his wife When I got up the sky was dim Tears running down my face I ran to my dad and quickly hugged him Never wanting out of that place.

artworkðsarahUnderwood

H idd en storyðsophiaBURGESS

The keys rattled outside the door and we hid. There was no way to escape now. I reached out to grab the object nearest to me, although it was pitch black in the dusty room. Maybe I could knock out the man who was after me if I put enough force into it. Probably not. The best option was to hide. I frantically looked around the room with what little vision I had. A dust red chair. Could I fit behind that? The lock turned. Too late, I better try it. I tucked my knees as close to my head as I could and held my breath as the door creaked open. “Come out, come out wherever you are.” And those are the last words I had ever heard.

photoðsarahUNDERWOOD

Finale of youth poemðmiguelElliot photoðkaeliAlpha

There’s a memory here Distant However just close enough to Feel An ever expanding community of Tunnels Infinite walls closing inside Monsters Past transgressions come to Light And there’s nothing you can Do Just dance to the Music And cry to the nostalgic Tune

Botched p o e m ð a ks h i r t a S e lva ku m a r

Keeping up appearances. Keeping up the image on the inside, to match the outside. The frown lines that were once wrinkles reminiscent of my bright smile, Now testament to the furrowing of my brows, Instead of the crows feet that graced my happy eyes. My sunken eyes, Evidence of the long nights spent trying to resurrect my former self. I’m my own surgeon, Giving myself fillers of nonexistent memories I wish were real, Tummy tucks to remove the unsavory, Dermabrasion to conceal the acne scars enveloping my brain, Because I can’t help but pick at the souvenirs of another time. There’s no such thing as too much. I cryosculpt away the red hot emotions with the icy cold. The Botox makes my feelings look smooth, Despite the omnipresent wrinkles of my mental state. I’ll shave off the peculiar bits of my personality, Plump my lips to better communicate my lies. In order to make myself presentable. In order to keep up appearances.

And then… And then I can cauterize the wounds accumulated over the years with a flame. I can lighten my brown skin to conceal my anger, I can transplant her personality into mine, I can remove the benign tumors of my quirks and habits, I can implant a permanent smile, Then suture my lips together to ensure it neve Post-operative care. Ok, ok, clean and ice your incision sites daily. Prevent contamination of your incisions from unhealthy feelings. If you see signs of infections, report to the clinic immediately. My cauterized wounds have been infected. My sutured lips have swelled, rendering my lies inescapable. The botox made me numb, incapable of feeling. The fillers of counterfeit memories have dissipated into the depths of my brain. I’ve shaved off too many pieces of myself. My implanted smile has tarnished, never again the same. I’ve enhanced so much that I’m not me anymore. I think I went too far, Trying to replicate the personalities around me. Trying to keep up appearances in a world where young girls look up to chunks of plastic on red carpets. Our personalities are perfectly plastic as well, But I’m botched.

What It Takes to Be A Woman storyð jaydenBASSETT

As a teenage girl, I constantly feel like I am in a cage. In a cage at a zoo where judgemental eyes are always watching me. There are hundreds of chains holding me down. On my neck, my wrists, my feet. On my mouth there is tape because if I speak my thoughts, I am too opinionated, but if I say nothing, I am a pushover. I should learn to talk and not be afraid of the greedy mouths ready to spit venom at me when I utter my first words. So I swallow my words and my pride along with them. The chains on my wrist remind me of how I need to eat more, that I can wrap my fingers around the perimeter of my own limb. But the chains whisper to me. They say that I should eat, but not too much because then I won’t fit in them. In my head I say that I don’t need the waistline of a princess to feel like a queen, but the voices behind the glass say that I am not the queen of swagger or beauty, but rather I am the queen of food and cellulite. I am the bearded lady that is forced into circuses, Onto the sides of the streets begging for money because she isn’t pretty enough to be on the runway. There is a bag over my head, because if I show my bare face then I obviously don’t care enough to preen myself for the boys around me. For the potential lovers who demand for me to sing for them, to dance. And then to stop because after all the time I’ve spent in my chains, under the bag, I’ve forgotten how. The eyes from behind the glass tell me that my face is a blank canvas and that I need to paint it to be beautiful, because if I don’t, then I don’t deserve the space I occupy. So I try. I make myself glow like the stars in the sky, but then someone in the hallways at school tells me that the star I modeled myself after is dead. They say that I don’t need makeup to make up for what I might be lacking. They tell me I try too hard, and all I want is attention from the boys, the girls, the people from behind the glass, watching my every move, waiting for me to make a mistake, because I am a fish in a bowl. People tap on the glass, expecting me to do the same thing as everyone else but at the same time waiting for me to do something spectacular. No matter how I dress myself up, there is a consequence. 66

p h o t o ð z a c h a r y Va n G u n dy

If I wear the latest trend, I am basic. If I wear sweats, I am lonely. If I show skin, I belong on a pole. If I am a housewife, I am useless. If I’m childless, I’m heartless. If I get an abortion, I’m a murderer. If I’m raped, I asked for it. I am at a fork in the road, and no matter what path I choose, I will leave with a label that I didn’t ask for. They tell me two different things, each ending in my humiliation, and expect me to be grateful. They tell me that my chains will make me stronger, but in reality, they just drag me down. They have the nerve to tell me what it takes to be a woman when they wouldn’t last out the front door in my heels. Confused, I return to my chains, pull the bag back over my head and choose a path.

What Things I Have Had to Struggle Within Becoming a Better Person poemðmariaPedroche

Ever since my sophomore year, the toilet has been my best friend. Any toilet to be exact. We have become quite friends over the past two years. Throwing up has never felt so easy. All of the calories that leave my body really satisfies me. I can’t imagine what life would be like having a full stomach all of the time. The food in my body, when I do eat, is usually thrown up about five minutes later. I sit in my bed at night fantasizing about what it would feel like to be skinny and have a body like the girl on my screen. I’ve tried to stop, but I always go back to my bad habit when my dad’s voice is constantly reminding me that I am not skinny. “Hey sweetheart, have you been hitting the gym lately? You look a little fluffy.” “I saw on your debit card receipts that you ate at Chick-Fil-A today. Please watch what you’re eating, everyone can tell how much weight you’ve gained.” “Your face looks chubby. What have you been eating?” “Look at your cousin. She has a killer body . . . why can’t you look like that?”

Ever since I was about thirteen, my dad has pressured me so much about my appearance. I would do anything for him to look at me just once and be proud of the person I am. I have great qualities to me. I’m funny. I can tell the best jokes. OH, and I have the biggest heart. But my dad never notices. All he cares about is what I look like. I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve stayed in because my friends were going out to eat dinner. When people ask why I’m not eating, I say I’m not hungry. But the truth is, I’m so hungry. So hungry that my stomach growls so loud it sounds like it is suffering. Sometimes I give myself over to the hunger and feel so guilty about eating that not even 5 minutes later I have already thrown up my lunch. Food is kind of my worst enemy. I envy girls that can eat whatever they want and not care about it. Having this mentality has really been a big part of my life. The day I wake up and love myself for who I am will be the day my life changes forever. For now, the toilet is still a close friend of mine.

Sleep

poemð hunterFields

I never meant to sleep it just happened. I wonder if sleep Will heal my pains from school, I wonder if I am getting too much sleep As I find myself awakening from sleep To a very angry math teacher. As the week turns into the weekend, I sleep. It turned out it wasn’t due any of those things.

I sleep because I dream I sleep because for once, Things go my way. I always admitted to myself That the sleep I give myself Is improper. Now, I sleep because Sleep is what I have want Most. Sleep.

artworkðzoeThompson

Entry C poemðrawanGalhoum

I ascend to a dream I say to my mom Don’t open the back yard door, there’s a cat outside. But my mom opens the door The cat came to the house And start running at me saying I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungary... And I’m running from her around the kitchen table Saying leave and I will give you milk But she didn’t leave, but she stops. I gave her milk but she keep saying 71 I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry…

The Jury poemð evelynnSingleton

I can’t believe you You’re supposed to care You’re supposed to love Your love is unfair I’m done with your game All its brought is pain The people I trusted most Are gone, but like a ghost They’ll come back, or will they? Why am I alive? Is it just a simulation? Is the end goal just to die? You could try and do something But there is no point The judge shall decide your fate It’s futile, stupid, and wrong It’s your fault every time Why Tears come running down my face But it doesn’t matter The judge will always have the final say There is no mercy They fake their love It’s all for who they know you as Not your inner core There are no revisions The decision is final You are not what they want What do you do with this? You can always conform You can always go back to the bottom And wish you were never born Anything for the boy they knew Nothing for the woman that’s real Anything to keep the flame burning With me roasting above 72

They may be blind

Survival in The 21st Century storyð faithLandis

I want to know what age I’ll stop caring about people what age will I stop trying to learn the chords to understanding and be content with the lonely tune of survival I want to know what age I’ll start sacrificing the future for a serial killing centerpiece on display so everyone knows that this a war zone well this isn’t a war zone but my neighbors house is or the school I’m forced to be at because teaching children to walk on the fine line of social standards is just as important as education Or the grocery store my mom takes me to because im 16 years old and need help surviving a dark room with locked doors and silent screams does nothing to help me survive I want to know what age this starts so I won‘t be there for it cause I would rather be 6 feet under than vote for a trigger happy diplomat

Sleeping storyðfaithLandis artðaveryFecher

The leftover tears from last night burned my eyes as I woke up. I rolled over to face my phone, it read 5 am. I groaned as I rolled my face back into the pillow. I spent the next 2 hours waiting on my alarm, thinking about what my mom was about to make me do. It really wasn’t that serious, people go to therapy all the time, but it wasn’t just therapy for me. It was acknowledging the fact that I wasn’t okay. I’ve known for a while I wasn’t okay but the words would hit me like knives. How was I supposed to explain my pain to someone? My pain that didn’t have an explanation. There are people crying from true lose. There are people who aren’t given lungs to breathe and I was wasting mine away with anxiety. It made it all burn even worse. The lump in my throat doubled, and the knot in my stomach I’ve been letting grow took up more and more space. I turned back over to my phone. Six o’clock it read. This time I picked my phone up and attempted to get my mind off of the knives cutting into it. Morning headaches are my downfall. I lasted about fifteen minutes on Instagram before I switched over to my browser. Google sat there mocking me, asking me what dumb question I was gonna ask now. What I should have already known and what answer I didn’t deserve. I pressed the private browser button. I don’t know why but it made me have a bit more confidence. I typed “therapy” into the search bar, seconds later a flood of ads and sources filled my phone. I clicked on an article titled,”The Benefits of Therapy in Children”. It spoke about the struggles I’ve seen and how therapy was basically the miracle drug for all of it. Doubtful,

therapy was probably like Halloween made up for the profit of the companies. The knots stayed. The scream of my alarm told me it was seven now and I had read at least 10 different articles all telling me things that I could of found in a self help book. I promised myself shortly after my 13th birthday that I would never read a self help for anything besides a laugh. My mom walked up to my bare door frame. She took the door off weeks ago and when I asked why she just responded that she was scared. We both knew what she was talking about but I just pleaded ignorance and laid back down. She stood there not in a mocking way but in a desperate stance. She looked like she wanted to say, “a messenger nothing more” after everything she was about to say. “Ten,” she said. “What,” I groaned. “Ten,”she repeated. “We’re supposed to be there at ten, it’s a 30 minute drive so shower and start getting ready soon.” No messenger statement as she left the doorway, though it wouldn’t of been inappropriate. I got up and walked to my bathroom. My legs ached from lack of use and my arms from tension. I started the shower and got in. Without a thought I sat on the cold white tile, the hot water pouring down on my hair pushing it down over my face. I probably looked possessed but I didn’t move it. I did this a lot lately, the whole letting the world fall down on me thing. I sat back as the dry wall of sanity fell from the ceiling down onto me.

artworkðjordanReid

Fish Outta Water poemðryanLaFollette

A fish taken from the wild A child misunderstood in a crowded room in a bowl of glass Unable to communicate, one way walls, no way out Stuck for what feels like eternity Nobody understands it He’s making it up Swimming in an empty space Thrown colorful rocks as distraction

watching his world be tapped upon A push A shove Everyday dealt another blow A razor swimming across a wrist Tears swimming in blood A fish taken outta water A fish grasping for air A body grasping for life A body grasping for somebody to care A body Tears today But tomorrow Those flushed memories mean nothing And another fish will take its place

Danger Among Beauty The bright yellow sun shines like a beacon from a beautiful sky the color of a robin’s egg and dotted with white fluffy clouds. The roses smile upwards, A bright scarlet field The color of a woman’s lipstick. A gentle breeze flows through the air, Like a mother’s touch Caressing her child’s cheek. All is quiet and peaceful, A sort of dazed laziness That takes over everything.

Suddenly, A threatening hiss breaks the calm. A snake slithers menacingly through the field, On the hunt for a meal. He raises his head Above the flowers To taste the air With his tongue. His scales glint in the sun, Like tiny mirrors Reflecting its light. He smells no prey, Sinks back to the ground to wait.

poemðkristenDrum

He is still there Waiting for the next unfortunate prey To blunder across his path Waiting for the perfect moment to strike Patiently waiting Waiting Waiting

photoðkelsieWolgamot t

Call Me By My Name s to r y ð a ks h i r t a S e lva ku m a r

You can call me by my name. My name’s Akshirtha, but I go by A. Akshirtha, like the word shirt, with a t-h. Oh, yeah Akshurra’s close, ahhh Ashurtha’s even better. Because I am exactly what you say I am. Ignore the name given to me by my parents, Ignore the name stemming from my heritage, Make it jump through hoops to conform to your vernacular abilities, Just know that my ancestors won’t be pleased.

My ancestors sing loud and proud in their mother tongue, Unaware of how y’all shunw The unique, The proud, The people who don’t look like you The people that sure as hell don’t act like you. My parents didn’t come to the land of the free with ease, Neither did Shakti’s or Dingxiang’s So call us by our names. You know us, The Asians, “brimming with brains”, Sharp as a whip, as if we were trained. We weren’t. Well guess what, Emily, You were given the upper hand from birth, We have to prove our worth. Earn a seat at a table that doesn’t want us. Our names work against us, our features too, The only thing left to do is become the punchline, Until it’s overlooked. Until my Indian heritage is just a joke. I take on a single letter, a single syllable as my name. In that one vowel, I hold my culture, my family, and their struggle, Because I have nothing left to gain by being called Akshurra

And being told that that is now my name. Thanks Victoria, You can call me “A”. My parents would say it’s A for angelic, Or A for all of my straight As But its: A for aggravated, A for audacious. You see, We’re pit bulls from the pound, Tryna act like we got pedigrees. “Making up” for our brown-colored faults with our intellect, “Oh, you’re so well spoken, for an immigrant” Why thank you Ashley, I’m overjoyed that my literacy shocks you. Say it, and look me in the eyes. “How are you so articulate, as you speak our language of lies?” Well honey, I’m a firecracker in disguise. Tryna keep up with my mama’s grind, The same mother who came out here expecting people to be kind, Yet was met with criticism of her struggle, Her journey, The dreams she never had, All to make sure her child would be proud of her mom and dad. Well I am.

The ABC’s of my Past and Present p o e m ð e m m a D u lwo rt h

A is for the Abuse my mom suffered, B is for saying Bye to all of my friends, C is for Colorado the place I love the most, D is for Depressed which I have been for so long, E is for Everyone I care about, F is for trying not to Forget about anyone, G is for Going away, H is for Him the one I love so much, I is for I’m fine, J is for Just get over it, K is for the joke of my friends Kidnapping me, L is for the Love I’ve never felt before, M is for my Mom she was so strong, N is for Never give up on myself, O is for Overthinking everything I do, P is for Please let me make friends,

Q is for I should just Quit, R is for Restarting everything, S is for Staying Strong, T is for Trying to make friends, U is for Understanding that everyone already has friends, V is for Very lonely, W is for Where did I go? I’m not the same, X is for Xoel the girl who couldn’t let me just live a day in peace, Y is for You the only friend that I have made, And Z is for Zoning out of this awful world and making a better one for myself. Now I know my ABC’s maybe next time they will be happy.

Hell No Matter Where I Go poemðEvelynnSingleton

You’ll never be a pretty girl You’ll never have their soothing voice You can only change so much You’ll stay forever a boy Forever in torture and suffering For everyone else life is easy They don’t have to think about how much they hate their shell How what they are isn’t right But of course I’m making this up, aren’t I? This must be some call for attention Or some fluke This isn’t your destiny Or so they hope No matter what you do, Hell will arrive You can act on your desires Be some half baked freak of nature Or hate being what you are I may be alive, but I feel more than dead Either way, I’ll burn alive once I’m gone If everyone else is right, that is

How can they hate someone like me? I never asked for this I’ll never be like all the other girls, Broad shoulders, deep voice, and the obvious Why don’t you go where you “belong?” With those other boys who never wanted you Who you never felt at home with I’ll never be like all the other girls I’ll never be happy like they are Obsessed with gender or whatever I didn’t want to be like this But dysphoria has consumed me Like a shadow that always creeps behind Paralyzing me at the worst of times Dysphoria, some word I’ve made up, Family doesn’t love me, I’m all out of luck I just want to be like them, but that will never change I’ve lost all hope, I’m becoming deranged, Why couldn’t I have just been a girl?

Run

storyðmiguelElliot

FADE IN INT. DAY Abuela’ HOME Victoria and her grandmother sit in the living room watching cartoons. On the television is Roadrunner, however the volume is muted. Victoria is breathing heavily, and her grandmother is scratching her cane nervously. The still silence is interrupted by a pounding on the door. Victoria stands up in caution, checks the peephole, hesitating before opening the door. Harvey bolts inside. VICTORIA What did they say? Harvey ignores her and rushes to the couch, lifting up the cushion and pulling out a black bag from the cut out piece. VICTORIA Harvey. Harvey! We can help you we just need to know what they said. Harvey runs to his room and retrieves his gun. He throws up in the bathroom toilet and wipes his mouth. Looking in the mirror, he begins to tear up, grasping the gun, and turning off the light. VICTORIA Harvey, you don’t have to do this. Harvey looks at her, tears in his eyes. VICTORIA (Cont.) Alone. She begins to cry. HARVEY Get gran, you need to pack everything you can carry, and you need to get the hell out of here.

ABANDONED stor yðshreyaParimal

Abandoned, you cry, words daring not to escape your fragile frame, stuck, caught, climbing up your throat in an attempt to choke them out, but you bite your tongue and swallow the pain that feeds from deep inside of you, you’ll ruin yourself within the love you crave. The air grows colder and the night grows dimmer, fading to darkness, the color of the mourning that paints your pale skin, you’ve fallen ill with grief, as you so deny the sickness that takes ahold of you, mind, body, and soul. I feel the inexplicable urge to hold you close and whisper that you’ll live, but your eyes are bloodshot and you are too weak to stand, your legs buckle and you hit the floor, imploring for release by whatever god takes up residence in those haunted halls up above, yet he is too cruel to answer your pleas, as you lips waver wordlessly and I can see the mortality in your eyes. Again, again, you relive memories too painful to imagine and torture yourself endlessly, punishing yourself for faults that are not your own, your body begs for release but your mind is a merciless master, you scream in anguish when you realize your nightmares have become reality and your fears have become truth. You whisper to me, once, a single word, your voice carrying over the cavern that separates us. “Abandoned.”

ar tworkðkaitlynWolgamot t

the burden of my body poemðlilyReinhardtsen

the words for my lips come from another voice the prints on my fingertips are a different pattern the tears on my cheek are mine but the cheek isn’t the beat of my heart is a different thumpit’s a different speed the muscles on my bones flex a different way the ring in my ear is a different pitch this isn’t who i am but it’s who i am burdened to be

artðjoelPolley

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