You said you didn’t like liars so I vowed to tell you the truth
I heard a pop when my skin unzipped to let the rocks into my palms and save them from the pavement
My neck shot back I got whiplash from that
Yes,
My hands smell like bleach but I’ll hide the stones under my nails for keepsakes
Honey stop that, don’t look at me so closely stop that please you know you shouldn’t touch me stop that I’m going to cry stop that you’re hurting me stop that I’m going to kiss you
Stop that, I swear to God I’ll leave you
I’ll blow on the daffodils I thought were dandelions embedded in the sidewalk crack for you
Then trace the silhouettes they left when they splintered against the walls of our haunted house, for you I didn’t assume that I would cry when The sky turned cherry blue
Oh god I bet you knew
When the carnival shook under the smoke stack
21 seconds later
I thought I’d see you.
ISSUE ONE
The Dictionary defines “thief” as, one that steals especially stealthily or secretly. I would like to absolve myself of this title. It was given to me by a writer last summer in a workshop in Ohio. As he described my work he said, very simply, “you are a thief.” What I found most alarming about his accusation was the way he smiled proudly after it came out of his mouth—as if he had found the perfect adjective, absolutely divine and truthful. It was ironically original and had a nice ring to it, but as he said it I felt like I had been caught. Thief, is a cuss word to an artist. Right next to phony, and inauthentic, and simple, and plagiarism, and cliche, and dumb bitch. The perpetual search for originality plagues artists. I had failed in this incredibly simple quest. I was “one that steals especially stealthily or secretly.” I was paralyzed by the notion that I was constantly committing robbery, and what was most disorienting was that I found the name to be fitting. I stole from everyone and everything, constantly. But that is the well known trick of artists. To steal and not be caught, find inspiration wherever possible at whatever cost. Still, to be a thief had a troubling ring to it and I wasn’t comfortable being one. My solution was this: be one who steals out of necessity, and for art - but never do it secretly, or stealthily again. That way, I won’t be a thief. My life’s work won’t be immoral. I will romanticize my loot, my findings, and create refuge for every other thief. Every other artist. Wrap the products of all the stolen things neatly in a package—call it, Cherry Blue
Editor in Chief
Richard Weston
Contributors
Alessandra Agopian
Tal Berreby
Susannah Carroll
Max Cohen
Kyla Guimaraes
Sam B. Hancock
Avery Jane Ben Taube
Vicotria Finehout - Vigil
Ruby
One of artist’s favorite fantasies to entertain is the idea that our work is a gift from some greater entity, and our only purpose is to be the vessel that creates the art which already exists. Michelangelo famously claimed that, “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” It is likely that this conspiracy holds some truth. Our greatest habit is our tendency to tell stories, desperately attempt to document events and emotions — turn ourselves inside out and prepare ourselves for auction, inspection. Spring cleaning simply doesn’t come around enough to survive every other season with clutter. So in the meantime, whether it be through language, music, photography, paintings, or simply “matches struck unexpectedly in the dark” (Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse), we attempt to evaporate our thought into something more digestible. We create art. However quite often, the means by which we are able to accomplish this task, comes from somewhere awfully distant. Perhaps it is our subconscious which delivers us our phrase or melody or image. Or it is something greater. Maybe these gifts come from somewhere all too complex for us to pinpoint, and take inventory of. Or maybe these inspirations come to us like children, it is by their will that they that find us and it is their desire to be raised by us. For this prompt you can’t start until you’ve received one of these gifts. So be good, and be patient. Find a lucky penny. Heads up, always. Keep it in your right shoe and write about where it brings you. Pay attention to your step, and your habits, and your invincibility in this practice. Know that it’s all false. Write at the will of the greater thing which has given you the lucky penny, and if all else fails, write about who, or what, dropped the cent there, heads up, just for you. Assume there was intention.
PENNY PROMPT
Dog
My grandmother didn’t have pearls or K9s that pulled blood. Yours, evidently did. You said that my dog bite from last November was God’s gift, you called it His attempt at fairness. To pull teeth from my thigh and string together a necklace, take the opportunity to make our family heirloom. And I’d really like to but the thing is my love, we were never born equal. And we’ll die every time to try again because you’re a good man. But you’re seven inches taller, and part titanium, which made this very difficult. So I suppose my point is this: it’s okay if you hurt me just make sure it works please. And don’t make jewelry out of my scar — it’s cruel.
Now again, it’s early August and we’re sitting at the dinner table. You’ve just ordered steak frites and I’ve just taken a sip of my water from the side of the glass with the lipstick stain, it’s a color I thought you’d like. You’re hunched over with your awful posture that your mother tries desperately to correct, and someone jokes that you wouldn’t have made it past the Salem Witch Trials, had you been there. I ignore the false logic because it dawns on me, as I breathe in tightly with the breeze, that I would’ve been right there with you. In the seat next to yours, I was freezing and you tried to blame me for the weather — burn her at the stake, you think.
Then you consider the option more seriously, and begin toying with the knife next to your plate. Swinging it between your two fingers — you between His fingers — threaten an end, and then, almost as if to take aim, you begin a sickening, back and forth. Full throttle. Flinging the sharp metal tip towards me, then back, again and again until I’m tapping my foot below the table to mirror your pace. You continue slicing the air in front of my face with the edge of the knife, which you will soon use to cut your meal, and I’ll watch.
On the fifth swing of the knife, I am without injury and gain some false confidence that your goal in this game might not be to kill me, and I ask you a question without much consideration.
How many times did I have to tell you that you don’t mean anything, anymore, before you’d take me out? One, quick, blow. God bless, your mother’s lying, and never forget her deathly ego, (she liked me way better than you though). Then as the words evaporate into exhaust, your taunting smile shows, and suddenly I’m watching myself from above, asking another one of my brilliant questions.
How close are you to letting go? I don’t know what I meant then, that is, until you meant it.
Let me go or let it go. I’m asking for your gut punch and guttural absolution, I’m asking that you forget that I’m a girl and that rule your dad will die by. I will go out with a whimper then a whisper but I demand another round of applause.
I think I know what this is. Did I look at you the wrong way after that one in a million missed assassination? We will never be better than forgotten, and polished. Please, end it all straight on. You didn’t deserve to dodge the bullet when I took one for the encore and all these women in the pews.
Something lands on the tip of the knife and is promptly sent flying to my eye. Tears well slightly for a moment, the cause in disguise. I don’t cry ever. It’s been that way since I was little. Blinking expecting nothing, begging to expose the thing which made me, make me, and have someone catch me. Crying, only to find my lineage dripping off my face. Only to say, you are a precious, precious thing. Traveled down my neck to my chest. I don’t cry, ever. Even when I couldn’t travel the length that I so desired. I remember being seven years old on my uncle’s boat, and pointing to where I wanted to go, way way off in the distance. Past the Vineyard and Nantucket, farther, than our gas tank and will power could take us. I was pointing at the horizon line, where I knew smoke would become air, and I could breathe still without it. I’m beginning to think you were there, beneath the trees reaping the benefits of my devotion to our flag. I’d like to say that I’m sorry I haven’t been able to talk my way to the edge of the water just yet. You picked the best hiding place for me to keep getting older, quietly, and less beautiful and less watered and less wanted. So I waged war.
Your steak came and it was still bloody, and I was reminded of my neighbor with the heart condition. She had the same aneurysm that her sister died from, so I told her a lie before she went into surgery. “Your kindness does not exist within the thing trying to kill you.” I’ll never live that one down.
And then we started breaking. You’ve started pointing out that I love you, to place blame. I’m looking for signs like I’m trying to find your street. Of course, you never told me that the line crossed was the one of my body learning habits, of course, you. You remember none of this. You’re sitting at the dinner table toying with the same knife, only now blurry with sweat and blood and shreds of muscle. Still swinging it between two fingers — you between His fingers — threaten an end, and then, almost as if to take aim, you keep on going, this sickening back and forth.
Tap, tap, tap.
You’re reminded that I owe you this. He assures you of it, as he’s pressing you tighter between His two fingers. I pose another question. How close are you to letting go my love? Close. Clutching pearls close, and rosaries the product of my dog bite. Close.
It’s almost my last resort. But then I hear my own voice begin to hum closely in my ears. I chant the name which holds a reminiscent equivalence to begging on hands and knees. It’s a name I barely know. God, tell him it’s worth it. God, tell him what he did. God, tell him my name means nothing, when we are all in this together.
He explains that my mother has that word tattooed on her wrist for a reason, He told her to stick to this position. A blue inked prophet was hidden in that needle, and it bled into me but they didn’t think it would be fatal, and then they realized and blue gloves had to pull me (neonatal), then thirty years later it prompted our napoleonic revival.
We will die and try again every time. The voice (my voice) begins again — God, tell him to do it. Just, as my mothers tattoo insists.
I’m seven letters deep.
Tap Tapped
Tap —
Release.
By Ruby Weston
Untitled
Sam B. Hancock
New York InteriorEdward Hopper (1921)
Nothing beats the bleed of my mother into me
She’s an angel pulling fire from the mantel
Collapsing in her bridal blue fading slowly
Grabbing faintly and dimly
She’s alive
And she’s gone and done good
She’s screwing with the mailman
Hearing bird sounds in the entourage
Clocks are forbidden in this house
Bet on me
Her shoulder blades pale and pulled to belt like swords
Her hair parted in a pyramid on a myriad of strands
Miraculously pulled and remaining, still
Excuse me mam
Introduce me,
I’m begging to be lighter
I can only ever be as happy as my mother
Nothing beats the bleed
She’s my new york interior
She’s my equalizer, and I Am bridged.
By Ruby Weston
i met you in michigan, and held your hand under the table
gravel home, keeping red steel. dancing body sparking, hands clasped with hers, fingers in a frenzy and i kiss her, and i kiss her, and i step back, her tousled hair loose, drunk with electricity, and i burned in it, and i burned in her.
By Alessandra Agopian
Sweet Lorelei
It was on the bank of the Rhine River, years ago. The man was traveling down the water, along with his crew. As he recalls, the water was a deep blue.
Like a blueberry forest, he thought.
The other men weren’t paying attention, they were doing their own things. Some were sweeping the deck. Some were raising the sail. One was steering the ship. Then they heard a voice. One after another, each man looked around to find the source. To their left: mountain. To their right: trees. Below: water. Above: a blue, clear sky.
They heard the voice again. A female, no doubt.
It was the most beautiful sort of song, the one coming from her lips. But, alas, there were no women on the boat. No girls. No feminine creatures. Simply tired men.
They decided to search.
Her voice only grew louder. There was no sign of her.
The men were too intrigued now. Where was it coming from? Which rock? Which lips?
One man saw a flash of silk above. A white sweep of fabric.
Then, a strand of scarlett hair. Another.
“Look, look!” the man cried, his arm outstretched.
All eyes followed.
The once loud whispers ceased as each of their beings were too focused on the ravishing beauty sitting atop the hill. Her hair was a red fire, not dark enough to resemble blood. The “ah”s she was making were so perfectly pleasing that no one could say a single word, but instead just stared at this angel, this alien, this too-good-to-be-true queen of consciousness because her words were in German but they still sounded poetic rather than harsh like most of the language’s “Ich Liebe Dich” i love you’s. No, each of her syllables were so magnificent they almost seemed made up, raw and real unlike any others the men had heard before.
One man’s jaw fell from his body, his teeth clattering on the floor.
Another went blind from her beauty. His eyes glazed over, two white peeled lychees taking their place.
A drop of blood sank from the ear of the third man.
If only they had seen those rocky rapids coming.
Soon all those who had boarded this boat were now nothing but dust, twirling down a whirlpool in these once-still waters; a dance almost as elegant as the siren’s songs.
Perhaps they weren’t meant to live, these sailors; perhaps it was an act of divine intervention that no mortal had any right to refute. Or maybe it was all a random rule that this crew of men were to fall into the trap of the siren with the beautiful hair and pearl white robes that hung so brilliantly along her body.
“I fear that the boat and her master Will slip under the waves before long. And what brought about this disaster?
The Lorelei’s siren song.”
By Susannah Carroll
Glass Half-Full
Yesterday I danced in a training thunderstorm. Today I fell down the stairs and bruised my spine interesting shades of green. When I text you about it, you reply with a voice memo of your laughter. On airplanes, I stare out the window at the clouds below as they vanish into themselves. There are so many little wonders around me. So many things that are beautiful and terrifying in equal regard. I am trying to keep notice, tallying up the times I am left in awe of something seemingly mundane; the times I’m left in awe and still afraid. A friend my age got engaged recently. I keep on forgetting little details, like the names of celebrities. I went to the lake with you last week, before our flights, and conducted water quality tests using a Secchi disk, lowering it into the bruisegreen water until it disappeared from sight. There are so many things out there that are no longer visible, but still breathe. At the airport, I do not know how to say goodbye to you. You are there, and then, as if lowered into the water like a Secchi disk, gone from sight. On my flight, I stare out the window at the clouds below. They vanish into themselves like your silhouette at the terminal, like the disk into the green water, like the bruise slowly fading away. All of these things that look as if they were never there. I know better. I’ve always known better. Staring out the airplane window, I tally another little wonder: I am scared by how much I miss you— so scared that, somehow, it is beautiful.
By Kyla Guimaraes
Sam B. Hancock Untitled
Mount Moriah
Boots lie forgotten on the porch, quick
I will love you with my teeth bared Into a vision of a smile for you, you have backed me into a corner. I, a wild dog, canines flashing and tearing lips. You, a hunter, wide shoulders and wider hands clutching a shotgun.
Hounding me through the forest, swift line the barrel to the heart of the beast, dear child on a scent, you set me upon a mirror. For a quiet death, a kind one, Muzzled me with my reflection, a lovely one, as I meet yours in the mirror, the ghost of your eyes.
You will love me only how you know, Your mouth a gaping maw of slamming teeth Spitting prayers of absolution. You — a hunter — raised shotgun shaking between the eyes and regretful heart beating, I — a wild dog — leg bleeding and soul unrooted.
By Alessandra Agopian
How To Be The Perfect Daughter
I
You watch as your brothers succeed, their awards squished on every shelf in the house. Science fair, mathlete, valedictorian, you stare at them in awe. That will be me someday, you say, too little to compete but eyes hungrier than the Hungry Caterpillar himself.
II
At seven years old you spend your summers completing the mounds of math booklets your mother buys you. And you just don’t get it. You forget that four times four isn’t eight let alone the entire multiplication table. Your brothers are applying to college for math. So, you keep reminding yourself of the importance of the booklets until the summer has slipped through your fingers.
III
You’re not sure about the last time you picked up a book. All you know is that middle school math is no joke. Your parents tell you so, over and over and over again. It’s preparation for high school, they say. You must put in more effort. More. More. More. It is all you hear. So, you grab a book, desperate to escape the never-ending cycle that twists and turns inside your head.
IV
Freshman year rolls around, and you still have not yet mastered the art numbers, but your room has become a safe haven for books. They line every corner and crevice. You didn’t understand why you felt such comfort in the pages of someone else’s story. You want to wrap yourself up in each word until you no longer need a blanket to warm you during the winter. You begin to write yourself. Words spiral on every empty space in your math notebooks; poems, essays, and short stories! But, alas, you must spend most of your time grinding out physics homework. Aren’t you planning on being a physicist after all?
V
You tell your immigrant parents that, after all the sacrifices they made for your education, you want to be a writer. It’s all about the stories, you tell them. We’re all connected through the stories we tell! They tell you that they love you but that writing isn’t a real job. You never stop writing, though, more poems, essays, and short stories. Eventually, they’ll understand; narratives are the soul of who we are.
By Tal Berreby
Pride
I’m trying to get out alive
With my Pride
My id, my ego
Held tight
Trying to get out alive
With my pride
This hubris is useless it
It hides my wound for you In plain view for you
I wanna get out
Without opening my mouth
Without showing you my doubt
Here’s to hoping it works out
My pride
My pride
My pride
No prize in the end just My pride in the end
By Victoria Finehout-Vigil
The 128 Civics Questions My Father Was Asked
let cigarette smoke seep through the ring of dulled nicotine pumping T.V. static dialed up to desperation for –Boy, not yet fifteen hours into the tarp covered car ride, crucifix pressed indelible –crack the colossus, pry the crowbar into the break and out spills an American Dream spells ruination –ruin nation, Boy, break it whole and climb till’ you’re fucked too –your father swore to not be his father, but his father swore too, and the promise of a father founded –somewhere in your mother’s house is a shoe waiting to drop the other foot into the grave
By Alessandra Agopian
Ms. America
Are you sure that Ms. America is okay with dying here?
Because my mother said it is very difficult to be pretty in this Climate.
Daft in her dowry and clinging to the smell of wet smoke and bug spray which froze you on my freckle, the one on the right side that was never my favorite
Engorged like bitten nails in damp sidewalks
Failing to defend this measured form of
Gagging on words too gamey to chew, not ripped well enough by bone to be swallowed and done much too roughly, and suddenly my voice is Hoarse, explaining this to you
If I ever consider biting the bullet to skip the movement of my jaw and eat my alphabet, if I ever offed myself in mauldin remembrance of that bug spray,
Just know I did my laundry first –Knock, first
Listen to this listless metabolic habit to
Never Open
Penitentiary
Queerly move your head cocked towards me and you’re looking like you’d rather be grown and pitched like it might pose the threat of three forks – burn me at the stake and I will wrap you nicely, dressed you orderly in respect for tradition, and then say nothing
Reverberate the last five hours to be the last five years, I paid good money to watch us rescind our previous stunt of gorging and tapping violently at the glass — accidentally,
Step on what I can only assume to be a twig, or severed dove foot, which you would consider to make us all the more beautiful and damned for when we’re ready
Then say it’s okay when they chew me and they don’t taste me, it’s
Unnerving that I’ve been deboned and allied with that fish almost caught but snapped off the line, hook in mouth and floss in teeth
Vacate the hold of carmine stained hands and the composite of our mercury sulfate like we came from there two years ago
Washed and we watched our wits came about us until we remembered that it was the fault of the Xanax ground and put in your father’s orange juice and that poor doctors X - Ray which you employed to dissipate my expression
You didn’t understand my question, you were over Zealous and misunderstood but I misunderstood too, I’m sorry I bit the bullet and said your name out loud, and I’m sorry Ms. America had to die here,
Instead of with you.
By Ruby Weston
On Silence
Perhaps, history wasn’t born as we desired because the human being never existed. If our souls were of their purist light, created in Adoni’s flawless image, suffering would be rung out by the soggy towel of mortality and prosperity. Take my great grandmother who fled genocide, murder at the calloused fingers of men who were of the orders from their master. When we say “human,” is it a euphemism for a blemished being or a pristine unworldly myth?
On my back, Hebrew, slanted letters write “.ש ” “quiet.”
quiet the mouths that speak for me and tell me my people don’t know suffering. quiet your correctness when you don’t know or care to listen.
We love to converse our words like puppets outside of our bodies. quiet. My arteries taste of fury that I must not release. You tell me not to. With your eyes of correctness. quiet.
My textbook pages sound like an amorphous loop that I am unable to hear without the flood of terror cracking out of my eyelids and onto this page you stand here reading. I have cut holes into my lips, the needle coming in and out of my mouth: yes.
Let it be so. I cannot.
Let it be so.
By Tal Berreby
THREE MORE MINUTES
This prompt is inspired by Marina Abramović and Paige Webb. It takes three minutes. Sit on the ground with your legs crossed if you are able, facing someone and leaving six inches between you. Set a timer for three minutes, and only look at their eyes during this time. Do not look away, and do not speak. At the end of the three minutes, write immediately without speaking for another 10 minutes, or create in some other way (painting, drawing, composing, etc). Try your best to leave space for the other person to exist comfortably within these three minutes. Compare your work, and attempt to determine what has now changed. Keep your pieces completely unedited and share them with each other.
I sometimes struggled to look in both of Ben’s eyes. I felt like I had to pick one - it felt awkward to stare at both, felt like I wasn’t truly looking into his eyes but instead the space between them. In many cultures looking into each other’s eyes is very respectful, but I don’t do it as much as traditionally I may. It can be straining to look and stare into someone’s eyes for so long. Looking into one’s eyes is also tied to so many more things. Romantically, it can serve as s way to connect people, a window into one another’s soul. A look and a nod can serve as communication and a sign of respect if paired with a handshake. In focus of Ben’s eyes, I noticed a glimmer - a reflection of light in his right eye. I could only see it when looking from a certain angle, but it stood out to me whenever I saw it. The color of Ben’s eyes I couldn’t exactly pinpoint, the lighting made it very difficult. They seemed greenish-grayish. At one point when I was looking at Ben, his face seemed to swoosh vertically - and it made him seem almost lizard-like. Not sure why it happened…maybe because of the continuous gaze I was holding? Something I also noticed about Ben’s face were his beautiful eyebrows and I started to noticed the spaces in between his features much more than I previously had. It’s something I have never paid attention to in a person, but the spaces in between Ben’s eyebrows, eyes, and under eyes became more apparent then before.
By Max Cohen
OUR THREE MINTUES: MAX / BEN
This trip has been a very momentous occasion for me. I have grown both as a musician and as a human being. I have not only improved my musicianship but I have also learned to be more independent and adapt to new situations. Paired with my personal growth, the people that I have met on this trip has also been one of the main highlights for me. The people here are very personable and eager to share and spread their passion for music. The environment is nothing if not supportive and the atmosphere fosters connections between musicians both as coworkers and as friends. To me, Max is the poster child for Berklee’s supportive environment. He is fun-loving and level-headed, extroverted but not obscene, and possesses the most amazing ability to fit in any situation and befriend any personality type. His authenticity and unwavering friendliness is something truly admirable. His personality also comes through in his music. He is a drummer that enjoyable to work with as he keeps a very steady tempo and works well with others. Max also always enjoys himself when playing music and seems to truly appreciate the experience of playing music which is something I believe every musician needs in order to succeed. I’m glad to have Max as a friend and I look forward to working with him and the other amazing musicians I have met in this program in the future.
By Ben Taube
OUR THREE MINTUES: AVERY / RUBY
I’ve picked my favorite and I like the left one better (her right) because it has train tracks in it. She plays guitar and does the thing with her voice where it skips, and her tongues been in the mouth of that one girl in my fourth grade class so I suppose we’re not all in this together and the guy screaming behind me got that girl pregnant or he’s class president, it’s windy and there’s a pond in the eye on the right, in front of me so it’s harder to hear, and ants in their death circle in the middle because I left my ice cream cone on that side. Can I call you rose? Avery like avenue. Ave. I’ll be a groupie for the eyeliner and the faint chance that then I’ll see that thing people reminisce about and I can tell them all I was there too. Dutch painters would like a subject similar to this if they were alive today. The right eye with the pond is the one I wouldn’t swim in because I’d be filled with some conviction some sense of altruism that would tell me if you go there you die. Sharks are in ponds. You know better. It’s not scientifically accurate and science is sexy but neither of those things are true except one part. They’re harmonizing behind me and I think I should play the triangle. People kill themselves there, kids are dropping like flies and that one guys dad jumped too. What does it mean if you tuck your hair at the same time? It might be the product of staring for 3 minutes or it might be that there’s wind or it might be that she does it every four seconds, Linda, she just did it again. Am I doing it again? Fucking with to fuck around to be Harvard, I’m Harvard and it’s getting harder to evolve past the enjoyment of being red. Kingsley not kindled or kinsley she’s from Idaho and has red hair. I like the left one because it has train tracks and it’s in the light, but light might move if we’re not careful and beacon hill will roll away and my role of groupie will be over when my dad ends it all like that one across the bridge. Was that a rat or are you traumatized and a little bit of a pussy now that you mention it. Please, don’t mention it. You paid. I’m on the top of the world looking down on creation.
By Ruby Weston
i made it three minutes without my hair blowing in my face - i probably should have just listened to her the first time. isn’t there a study where if you stare at someone for over three minutes straight you tend to develop feelings for them? don’t worry isaac - i locked in i’m not gonna ruin your date. brown eyes are pretty dope - probably my favorite type of eye color. under appreciated- no doubt. it’s too bad it’s dark out right now- cuz sometimes brown eyes have lighter tones weaved into the darker tones near the center of the eye. they’re always already so pretty but then it looks like they have gold braided into them and they just become even more encapsulating. i wonder if her eyes have those. i was trying to piece together whatever emotions i could see from the third of her face that i was allowed to look at- harder than i thought it’d be. i’m really cold - and i can see isaac dancing in my peripheral vision. i finally found a drummer!! a super good drummer. he’s going to be so incredible as a part of our band, it’s all i’ve been thinking about for the past 72 hours. i close my eyes and i see album covers. mary in a red dress, kourosh looking in entirely the wrong direction, isaac posing like a cool dad. not really sure what ill do but ill make it count. that’s what matters anyways. there’s a group of people playing “On Top of the World” by The Carpenters right now. I love that song - and The Carpenters. Their music is like an auditory form of peace to me. It reminds me of summers when I was younger, grilling with my dad and grandpa. Or zoning out and staring at the christmas tree lights during the holidays while “Merry Christmas Darling” is playing. Kind of fitting, today’s christmas in July. i wish christmas felt the same as it used to. back to brown eyes. maybe she’ll be the second incredible thing to happen to the band this summer- a writer and lyricist can make a world of difference. i’d love for it to work out. i can’t tell if those three minutes felt more like 30 seconds or more like 30 minutes. i’m not really sure which way is better. i wish i had my soccer hoodie. i wish i had more time to talk to this girl. i wish i knew what she was thinking - but i was only given three minutes so i’ll just have to be content with what i have.
By Avery Jane
“Right
Luminous inside
I am diving to drown in you
The stripes, your eyes, your voice, the night
We’re young enough
To believe it should hurt this much
The stripes, your eyes, I always wanted to try
Right
Luminous inside
I am diving to drown in you
The stripes, your eyes, your voice, the night
Home
All the lights turned on
Do you remember running barefoot against the dark?
I elected to drown in you
And when the sidewalk ripped up our frozen feet
I can’t protect you now if I couldn’t save you then
You were still just a kid
You’re a beautiful boy
Crushing cigarettes just to prove a point
Feast for eyes, almost too alive
From gigantic down to the floor to sweat it out
Panicked, exploding
The headlights below us
I had to outgrow it, to know or destroy you
Right
Keep me up all night
Every void ‘til the afterlife
It’s just the way your hair hangs in your face makes me wanna die
So come home
With the lights turned on
Do you remember running barefoot against the dark?
I elected to drown in you
And when the sidewalk ripped up
our frozen feet
I can’t protect you now if I couldn’t save you then
I could never get in, I could never get back
He is full of the worst and he looks it
Whether under water or under me
I can’t protect you now if I couldn’t save you then
You were still just a kid
You’re a beautiful boy
Crushing cigarettes just to prove a point
Wasted, shy
Almost too alive
From gigantic down to the floor to sweat it out
Nobody knows you, the weight of your trust
How I crushed and consumed you and loved you too much
Feast for eyes
How I changed your mind, but Who am I if I don’t have you now?
Nobody knows you
The fate of a crush
How I had to consume and destroy us
We’re young enough
To believe it should hurt this much
Do you remember running barefoot against me?
And when the sidewalk ripped up our frozen feet
I can’t protect you now if I couldn’t save you then
