The Dark Station

by Andrianna Solomonidou

At noon the sun burns as I make my way to the dark station. “To where?” the old man asks. “Do you know where you ’ re going?” I reply, “I’m tired.”

The dark station is filled with people asking what time it is, worrying about an appointment, arguing, next to an apple juice stand. I think I can see birds flying in the distance.

I approach a clown. “Tell me something funny,” I say. “It’s funny how we fool ourselves. We learn how to be sad, so as not to be alone.”

The graffiti on the wall reads Truth. Truth is a crying baby with thorns for hands.

Time passes as I’m waiting in the dark station. Waiting for a train that is not coming.

by Antzelina Viktoria Fykatas

1. Homebody

This body is a house. A home?

What makes it a home?

The light shining through the grime-stained windows, The wallpaper, peeling, The curtains, frayed?

Or perhaps

The colourful cracks

Painted over In cobalt blue, In crimson red, In arsenic green, In shimmering gold; The halls and pathways twisting, writhing, turning, Leading through, Eyes

Eyes that watch, carefully and quietly, taking it all in, taking everything apart

A mind

That thinks, that feels and loves and hates

Creating a maze, so easy (too easy)

To get lost in;

A heart –

It stubbornly refuses

To quiet its gentle rhythm, The drums sounding on, And on, Slow and steady.

When is a house A home?

Why, when you love it.

2. Body/Self

Look in the mirror, See:

Crooked, tired eyes, Chewed lips, Red, scratched skin, Tangled golden hair

All too bright, too loud, too much In their exhaustion, their sadness, their joy.

Can you look away?

Tell me:

Can you try?

Do you want to?

Should you?

Is there a tragedy

Quite like a body That does not want to see itself, And a body, That cannot help but watch?

A leg that aches on rainy days, Scars from childhood adventures, Stretchmarks and organs And a heart and blood; Leg hair, too, And asymmetrical eyes (Are they really?) And a bumpy nose, Cracking wrists And pain in my bones, It’s not perfect. Maybe that’s fine. Because every body Is a story.

May I Tell Mine?