Chronicle Clemson’s Literary Arts Magazine | Spring 2018
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Cover Art by Bethany Williams
The 120th Anniversary Edition of The Chronicle
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Contents Visual art 4 Dual Misfortune 7 Sarah 8 The Body 1 11 The Body 2 12 Stranded in Oklahoma 15 Moon 16 Coat Stealer 18 Falling 22 You Don’t Know How Lovely You Are 27 Birkenrock 28 Ghost Boy 30 6602 42 Leftover 45 Brother Drops 46 Hurry on Home 49 Galaxy House 51 *sigh*
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53 Puppet 54 We Were Here 57 Spring St. 58 Belladonna 60 In a Line 64 Real Love 67 The Body as a Place 68 Untitled 72 Transition 74 Tied Up
Literary Art 5 Girlhood 9 Requiem for Blood 10 Beggars’ Floor 13 Please Talk to Me 17 Flickering Embrace 20 #3 (You came from the sea...) 23 Au Arua Held Loosely By Strings of Colored Glass 24 Study Group 29 Emily 43 The Artist Has Arrived 48 For All Crossings 50 Womanhood 55 Reminiscing 56 Criminals of Rural Mississippi 58 Beneath the Surface 61 Knowing You 65 Sagefiller 66 An Open Letter to A Dead Friend 68 Reflection on the Emptiness of Adulthood 70 Do You See Yourself Too? 71 Growing Up 72 Autopsy 1
Senior Staff Maggie Herring, Editor-in-Chief Xavier Charlot, Managing Editor Madison Wakefield, Promotions Director Haley Horton, Layout Editor Lauren Kohnle, Literary Editor Hannah Rivers, Art Editor Nick Seiter, Copy Editor DeOnna Clarke, Webmaster
General Staff Allison Killinger Chloe Emerson Dawson Walker Eric Neumann Erik Antonio Joe Whipple John Tison Lori Able Margo Marie McManus Rebecca Kerr Sydney Lykins Taylor Summey Win Marks
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Editor’s Note Dear Reader, I’m overwhelmed with a bittersweet joy as I sit reflecting on my past two years in The Chronicle. I came across this organization during my freshman year at the Tiger Media Open House. The office was filled with subtle, timid laughter as each member discussed their genuine passions for the arts. It quickly became a calm and steady home for me during my chaotic first semester. Despite the welcoming nature of the organization, though, it was upheld by individual dedication and lacked directional clarity and representation of the student body. However, our staff was reminded this semester that periods of change and experimentation were not only familiar, but continually celebrated by The Chronicle since its establishment in 1897. We decided to embrace and commemorate this season of growth in the best ways we knew how - the arts. You will see change as you flip through these pages. Textures will evolve, colors will flow, and graphics will seamlessly reflect the passing of time as we holistically celebrate our history and look towards our future. Although we no longer require submissions to follow a particular theme, you will see many pieces which represent our internal and external growth through time, age, relationships, and procured wisdom. I do not believe this to be a coincidence, though. As college students, we find ourselves in many tumultuous and unknown situations. Everything is ever changing, and it is only fitting that our artists felt called to express this truth through some of the most idyllic and pure forms of artistry. As you change, so do we. Thank you for allowing us to capture your growth as both an artist and a person throughout these pages. Sincerely, Maggie Herring Editor-in-Chief 3
Dual Misfortune by Rebecca Kerr
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girlhood Margaret Taylor There are girls who don’t grow up White or straight or cis. They feel like they’re on the outside Always looking in. Racial slurs, dyke, whore He-She. They’re not just words. People treat us like we are less So our voices won’t be heard. There is a girl who’s brown and Laughs infectiously. But you’ll only Know her name when you’re making toast And find her name in the tabloids. Murdered. Say her name, we say, But there’s too many names to say. There is a girl who wants to be president, But has to learn the names of the forty-five men Preceding her in history. And the women who do make it in politics Are picked a part like meat from the bone, scrutinized. She thinks to herself, what’s the point? There is a girl who once stood proud with faith And loved fully with her heart. But she was taken Around back and beaten
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For the hijab she wears and Told to go back where she came from. But she was born here and sobs at night For a crime she didn’t commit. There’s a girl who wants to go to school, But can’t because she’s what they call ‘unclean’ And doesn’t have another pad. Her family needs that money for Food to put on the table. Instead, she stays home In the kitchen where the men say she belongs. She sees her brother learning with a smile in his eyes And wants just a sliver of what it must feel like To have that knowledge at her fingertips. There’s a girl somewhere giving birth To the child of the man who raped her. They told her she was asking for it, but she never remembered Saying yes, only waking up afraid. Some say she’s a hero for not having an abortion, But really she never had a choice. There are girls who are executed for loving girls, Told that their face would be prettier if they would just smile, Or married off as children when they should be learning To divide and multiply the numbers That will never be in their favor. But don’t forget. There are girls who are tired of seeing a world Where our voices are silenced and our bodies controlled. There are girls growing up to be leaders and educators Fighting with fury and shattering glass. “Feminist” has become a dirty word.
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Some girls shy away from saying it, Because the backlash can be deadly. But I will scream it at the top of my lungs Until every girl can breathe again.
Sarah by Cassidy Mulligan
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The Body 1 by Michala Stewart
requiem for blood Taylor Summey
I miss the feeling of wholeness that came before. Back and forth on a rusted swing set, early morning sun already blistering on my back. Birds chirping in the trees. Easter eggs long forgotten in the grass, months old but still vibrant. Unbroken. (Not for long.) Body whole. Chest full. You don’t notice how good it feels to understand your body and the way it feels inside, the way your skin connects to your soul. You don’t notice how wonderful it is to know the monthly ebb and flow, the waxing and the waning. The rush of oxygen filling your lungs without a worry in the world. You don’t notice it until it isn’t there anymore. I didn’t know how good it felt to be in touch with my body until I ran out of quarters to call it from the gas station payphone.
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beggars’ floor Dawson Walker
I’m searching for the end, just to see what comes next I’m looking for the end, to see if anything is left. Everything has been done before All the dreams and hopes of those who could cope Lain strewn upon the beggars’ floor. What are we begging for, When everything has been done before? Why do I search for the end Just to see what comes next? I need to learn to be in the moment again. I’m reaching for a future that has yet to come Reaching beyond the future just to see if there is something past my imagined pain. All I see when I am like this is the pain; It doesn’t end, can’t remember where it begins And all I want to know is Whether I’ll feel normal again. Why do I search for the end, When my body can’t find my next breath?
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The Body 2 by Michala Stewart
Stranded in Oklahoma by Benjamin Adams
“The if I die became when I die and turned into please don’t cry.” 12
please talk to me Chloe Emerson
Don’t talk to me, I’m waiting for bad news. I repeat this over and over again in my head like it is the only thing keeping me sane. The only white Christmas I’m going to see is the snow, falling over the ground next to me where she should be walking, walking, not crushed against her husband’s chest in an urn she picked out herself. Don’t talk to me, I’m angry. Tamir Rice. Somalian explosion. Syrian revolts. Mike Brown. Mass graves. Child soldier. I’m angry at the patriarchal abuse, stop whipping the dead bodies. Stop shooting the innocent. Don’t talk to me, I’m waiting for bad news. I’m told she sleeps all day. It won’t be long until one breath stops fading into another. It won’t be long until she’s up there with the angels, or whatever the hell I’m supposed to believe to make it all okay. Don’t talk to me, I’m angry. A concert turned into a war-zone. Fragile human beings absorbed into the ground as the machine-man stalks above them in a duck-duck-goose game like bang-bang-bang. Don’t talk to me, I’m waiting for bad news. The if I die became when I die and turned into please don’t cry. I keep reaching for my phone, like any minute the grim reaper will send me a message. Any minute now she’ll fly out of the ballpark, going-going-GONE. Don’t talk to me, I’m angry. 141 human beings slaughtered. I always thought the
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worst school could get was four tests in one day. I never thought a test with death as an outcome was possible. How does a massacre of this magnitude happen? How does cruelty this powerful exist? Please talk to me, I’m drowning. There is sorrow in the lining of my stomach. There are tears falling down my face, Hold me. Hold me. Hold me. Before the hurt in my body threatens to explode. Don’t make me mourn humanity; don’t let me douse the hope-flame burning in my chest. I used to believe in the good of others, used to see life through whimsical nothings, now I see fourteen year olds holding their hands up like “Don’t shoot, Mr, Please don’t shoot”. I see shirts crying out “I can’t breath”. I am breathing and breathing, but the noose is pulling tighter. I am trembling over the trapdoor my feet rest against, fighting against the hood on my head. They are EXECUTING children. I would tear out their throats if my short arms could reach. I would put the .22 revolver to their heads and pull the trigger if I could find any bullets. I would shove them under water if I could find a teaspoon of liquid. They have scorched the earth with their abuse. I would do anything to get rid of the pain. Please talk to me. I’m angry, and I’m sad, and I’m scared.
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Moon by Emily Kelly
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Coat Stealer by Nicole Embree
flickering embrace Everett Zuraw
The dead stars we saw in our youth Will still be in the night sky when we’re old When time has made us wise, or like children once again Not knowing how we will fair, In a world that has yet to come. What should we do to pass the time? Shall we travel the unknown? To the sea where we know not, What we’ll find deep below.
To make our own stories in unfamiliar places. Mysteries where we become phantoms, No longer bound by others knowledge.
To other lands void of man, Listening to the birds sing songs unknown By those we came from We will write thoughts in letters, Never to be sent. Because we knew each-others lips. The truths not spoken Are already known, By the collision of body and soul.
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Falling by Everett Zuraw
#3 (You came from the sea…) Lauren Kohnle
“You came from the sea”, my mother used to tell me, “A precious gift to an old woman with no children of her own.” When I was young I believed her, Treasured her story and bundled it up around me, Warmed myself with her words. It wasn’t until I grew that I learned how fantastical The idea was that I was someone special, a boon from the sea, A child swaddled in a seals skin. The world does not allow the fantastical to exist, Excepting, of course, in the minds of the very young and very old. My mother belonged to the old type, Believed that my love of swimming, my interest in dance, 20
Seven Sisters by Katherine Kesey My temperature that was always slightly too high, They all had to mean something. There was no reason to break her heart, no way To kindly tell her that her story was a lie. It was apparent she believed her own tale, And in the end the fantasy left with her, buried Beneath the harebells that she always loved, An old woman full of stories of selkies and pooka and fae, Who cared for me. An old woman who maybe knew more, Saw more, than I ever thought, Who saw an abandoned child and knew to take care of her, Knew to take care of her skin, Knew to keep it dry and safe, locked away and Hidden in a box in a trunk in the attic. Knew that when the time came I would find my skin, Remember her stories, And return home to the sea.
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You Don’t Know How Lovely You Are by Sydney Lykins
an aura held loosely by strings of colored glass Madison Wakefield
I am a light in the dark. So small you would think your eyes were make believing, magically morphing a mirage. Like when you rub your eyes back into your sockets just for a kaleidoscope light show dancing across your eyelids. But I am here. A crackling, flickering warm yellow dim; so gigantic by contrast of all my surroundings, so enticing compared to the emptiness and dismay around me. I am the kind of bright which pushes goosebumps back to the skin, painting warmth onto your arms and legs, kissing away your chills. Though even the sun hides to let the lightning roam. Do not be surprised when you remove my shirt that there is a thunderstorm sitting, waiting to take reign. Be warned my fingertips will trace your jawline upwards, and you will hear the faint spark of static. Like bite marks on your neck, my brushing lips will shock your tender skin. And I will not atone for my voltage. This heat inside of me will not make me kneel on my knees and plead for forgiveness. For when the days become dull, this light will grow brighter, and more blinding. And I will be unapologetic.
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STUDY GROUP An Absurdist Comedy By Haley Horton Inspired by the works of Lewis Carroll and Eugène Ionesco. CHARACTERS (in order of appearance) Tiffany Chad Courtney Mason You Relations: Tiffany and Mason have been dating since middle school, Chad and Courtney became a couple a few months ago. Congratulations, you’ve been fifth-wheeled. TIME Present day, late afternoon. SETTING A college study lounge. There are tables, chairs, and a couch. The room is cluttered and has a feel of disorder. Chad and Courtney cuddle awkwardly on the couch. Mason in a swivel chair by a table throws popcorn at Chad. You watch the motley crew from a chair by the couch. Somewhere, a dog is barking. ACT I Tiffany: (scrolls through Buzzfeed for cat videos) We have so much to do this week, it’s insane! Chad: I agree. Courtney: Absolutely. Mason: (grabs handful of popcorn from bowl on table) Uh, huh. You: Should we start our group assignment? It’s due tomorrow. Chad: I suppose we should. Courtney:(sighs) At some point, we have to. Might as well get it over with. Mason, do you have it? Mason: (tosses remaining popcorn pieces at Chad) I think so. (turns chair to a table with scattered pages, old Wendy’s bags, an owl mug, and two plastic dinosaurs) Uh…is this it? (holds wrinkled page) Courtney: It’s on green paper. Mason: Found it! (grabs pencil from owl mug) Tiffany: (eyes still on phone) Alright, Mason, shoot. Mason: Shoot what? Tiffany: Just read. Mason: Well, why didn’t you say so? (reading) First question, what occurred at the Battle of
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Waterloo? Chad: (thoughtful) Didn’t Abraham Lincoln beat the Russians there? You: (start to respond) Um… Tiffany: That’s right. Lincoln would have lost had the Spanish Armada not arrived as backup. In fact, I believe several thousand soldiers died as it was. A rough war on either side. Mason: Which war was it? (scribbles on green page) Tiffany: The Hundred Years’ War! (smiles with satisfaction) Chad: Sounds right to me. Courtney: Quite indeed. Mason: (finishes writing) Alright, next question… You: But isn’t… Courtney: Ready! (laughs) We’ll be done in no time. Mason: Question Two, what do we mean by saying Dickinson was an isolationist? Chad: Well that’s absurd. They should decide what they mean before asking us. Courtney: Quite indeed! Mason: Stupid teachers. Courtney: (nods heads) Besides, the question is rude. Isn’t it mean to say that about Dickinson. She was from Canada, right? Mason: No, Australia. You need to read more. Courtney: Even more so! Small lonely island, of course she could be called isolated! Tiffany: Certainly so. Reminds me of that girl from our literature class. Always sat in the back in silence. Such a shame, too, she had the most wonderful hats. You: What happened to her? Tiffany: What a pity, what a pity. She disappeared, no one know’s where she went. Mason: (shocked) She vanished? Right out of thin air? Tiffany: (scrunches face in thought) No, I believe the air was thick that day, rather humid that time of year, wouldn’t you say so, Courtney? Courtney: (not paying attention) Quite indeed. Tiffany: She had a strange cat, too. Courtney: Who did? Tiffany: The girl. From literature class. The one who vanished. Courtney: Oh, yes. Tiffany: She had a strange cat, a hairless one. Chad: Odd. Courtney: Indeed! Mason: Quite indeed (scoffs). In fact, I believe it wasn’t a cat at all. Tiffany: (bewildered) What do you mean? Mason: Well, it is a hairless cat, correct? Everyone but you: (nods heads in approval) Mason: All cats have fur, so, a hairless cat is not a cat at all. Courtney: (stares at the wall with amazement) How strange! I never thought of it that way!
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What is it then? Everyone: (turns to Mason, waiting earnestly for response) You: (struggle very hard to avoid rolling eyes into the back of your head) Mason: (grins) A rat. Courtney: (sad and confused; sighs) But a rat has fur. Mason: (thinking) A naked rat. Tiffany: (leans back on the couch dramatically) But then what is the difference between a cat, a rat, and a naked rat? Chad: I think the latter is fat. You: What does that have to do with anything? Chad: It’s just a fact. Tiffany: But it’s a useless fact. Mason: There’s no such thing as a useless fact. All facts are factual, and factual things are useful. Chad: Quite indeed. Courtney: Sounds right to me. You: I think we are lost. Mason: Lost? But we haven’t gone anywhere. You: What was the original question? Mason: Useless facts. Chad: Fat rats. Courtney: Fat naked rats. Tiffany: Hairless cats! Chad: All the same. Courtney: Quite indeed. You: (sigh)
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Birkenrock by Hannah McDowell
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Ghost Boy by Nicole Embree
emily Madison Bauer
Lo, I sit
I am becoming them
In my ivory tower
Transparent,
Breathing the air
But unseen
Of those before me
Like glass
Like second-hand smoke.
And just as delicate.
I take a puff
Pretend I’m alive
And choke up words
And pull me in —
As they wrestle
A voiceless lover
With the lingering breaths
Sharing words
Of ghosts.
Unspoken.
I am their voice —
Oh, my soliloquy —
They are mine,
If heard
And this body
Without speech,
I fear,
I shall know
Belongs to them too.
I am real.
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6602 by Benjamin Adams
“
from our staff
A legacy means having a lasting impression on some thing that is important to you.
A legacy is when you have left your mark on something that others can remember you by.
Legacy is your impact that reverberates through time and is heard by those who come after.
Hannah Rivers
DeOnna Clarke
Erik Antonio
A legacy is an ideal that you leave behind for others to strive towards. It’s not something concrete, but rather ethereal. Buildings and systems collapse in time; a legacy is eternal.
A legacy is something that deserves to be remembered and begs to be stood upon so it ever reaches higher. It’s existence is an ever triumphant demand to be seen.
Legacy is the idea you leave behind when you as a person is gone. Or the resonating idea an organization has over years of members all contributing to it.
Dawson Walker
Chloe Emerson
A legacy is a string anchoring you to the impactful things you’ve done, wherever you are.
Leaving a legacy is having people remember you for your most defining characteristic and the impact you had on those around you.
Margo McManus Being a part of a legacy is an honor to uphold. A timeless tradition to commemorate all the hard work done before you, and to motivate the creativity that will ensue long after you’re gone. Lori Able
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Allison Killinger A legacy is something you have to look back and reflect on. Positive or negative, the legacy you come from impacts the legacy you leave. Lauren Kohnle
John Tison A legacy is something that you leave behind for others to look up to and strive towards. Hopefully, it’s a good legacy. Sydney Lykins
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“
from our staff
For me, growth means to have understanding towards what is best for yourself. Some decisions could be extremely difficult or heart wrenching, but growth is about knowing those decisions could better you in the future. Madison Wakefield
Growth is new understanding, new ability, and new strength used to steer our lives towards fulfillment and accomplishment. Eric Neumann Growth is gaining a better understanding of the world and our purpose in it. Win Marks
To me, growth is adapting to issues as they arrive and working towards getting better. Anything that comes from that is a perk, but it’s truly about becoming a stronger, better version of yourself.
Growth is both the progress that everyone sees, and the innumerable mistakes that no one remembers but you.
Rebecca Kerr
Nick Seiter
For me, growth is the ongoing process of working toward becoming the best person you can be.
To live boldly, embrace challenges, and accept changes –– this is what it means to grow and truly experience this adventure called life.
Taylor Summey
Haley Horton
Growth is knowing where I’ve come from and not wanting to go back. Xavier Charlot
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Leftover by Katherine Kesey
the artist has arrived William Best
what even constitutes art any more someone told me about this guy who left a pineapple in a museum just sitting there on a table and they all ooh’d and aah’d over it like it was some stroke of genius that as it rotted over the weeks it was an allegory about the moral decay of society or maybe some metaphor about the mortality of man but it wasn’t it was a pineapple art today supposedly challenges the notion of what is art but we forgot (at least i think) that we still need to know what is art and this makes it hard for the rest of us to keep up sometimes like when you’re at a party and everyone laughs at some inside joke you weren’t around for and then when they have to explain the punchline everyone realizes it’s not that funny and they all secretly hate you for it i also hate (just a little bit) that i’m writing this on a laptop since frantically hitting the backspace button when i make a mistake just doesnt bring the same satisfaction that crumpling some paper and throwing it across the room does once i slammed my laptop shut in frustration but that was followed by ‘oh shit’
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and a quick apology to the screen when i opened it back up which is all a bit silly given that its a machine and it can’t really hear me but this poem is also a bit silly (here i was going to ask if this was a poem but that seemed too meta) since literature doesn’t really have existential crises which is making me imagine some authorial purgatory where those metal folding chairs with flaking paint are arranged in your highschools gym and everyone has to say their name and their literary vice before eating half-stale donuts and leaving with their coffee which i think is kinda funny but now i’m afraid that this has turned from questionable art to definite rant which is a tad bit embarrassing on my part i will confess that i’m not very good at writing endings so i’ll just say my farewells to you now and ask that when you do finally get around to the ending you’ll share this with someone else so that our conversation never has to end
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Brother Drops by Hannah McDowell
yellow lines Everett Zuraw The crosswalk in my head has broken walking signs Flickering between go and stay But they both take me to the same place anyway Across a busy street with traffic that never stops.
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Hurry on Home by Luke Pearson
for all crossings Madison Bauer
Walk sign is on for all crossings. Walk sign is on for all crossings. It’s dark but it seems only dim now The reds and greens throwing themselves at the street, like Christmas Make your list and check it twice, yourself For any errors; Lick the envelope and it’s yours. Does anyone know what they’re sure of, As clear as street-lights? Or do they see something yellow when they close their eyes, Like me, Like anyone honest. I wish it was five in the morning and no one was around but me Pressing buttons, waiting Walk sign is on for all crossings. But now it’s colder than I thought And I’m wondering if this was the best idea. I just saw black masks color themselves in Over the faces of some men
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Galaxy House by Emma Woolbright
But I saw enough to recognize their eyes through the window Wondering where I’m going all by myself— At least they didn’t whistle. I am almost to where I’m going And I think what I’m most afraid of is what to do When there are no automated voices left To tell me where to go, and no crowd To fade into the next place with me.
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womanhood Emily Rowe
when i got my first period, i was thrilled. marked with the crimson stroke of womanhood, i was no longer a little girl. i was no longer too young to be a part of the whispered gossip filled conversations of the women in my family. my sister and i could share boxes of pads and tampons, bottles of advil and naproxen. i was no longer too young to go bra shopping, too young to understand. i could read Teen Vogue and relate to every word, i was a woman. no one told me that it was now okay. it was now okay for men to comment on my new chest. it was now okay for boys to yell their tube sock dreams of my wider hips. no longer protected by the shield of childhood, it was now okay. while i experienced many new things
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*sigh* by Emma Woolbright
after that first visit from Aunt Flow, i also began to feel things i had not felt before. an unexplained, unwarranted hatred of the body i lived in, my burden of anxiety heightened with raging hormones in my blood, mood swings worsening the monster living under my brain named depression. red spots on my face that boys liked to make fun of as if their faces were not acne warzones themselves. another growth spurt, as if i was not already towering above the other girls in my class. “don’t let anyone see your pad when you go to the bathroom to change,” my friend whispered to me at school, “it’s inappropriate.” “don’t say period in front of boys, it’s gross.” “don’t talk about puberty, boys think it’s unattractive.” suddenly i realized that my body was not for myself and it was my responsibility to act like I didn’t feel like there were earthquakes in my uterus. it was my responsibility to hide my new body, because my education was not as important as the pervy boys in my math class. it was my responsibility to not bleed through my new jeans, and miss class because i’m crying in the
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bathroom as i call my mother to bring me a change of clothes. because being a woman is unattractive, but when she’s half naked on the cover of Playboy we like it. because spreading your legs open for a tampon is gross, but when a man is in between them it’s hot. because a woman’s body was never for women, unless it’s bloody and crampy, then we don’t want to hear about it. i am here to say that Womanhood is for women. i am here to say that young girls should take pride in their new bodies. your body is yours and no one else’s and you should never feel ashamed of it. you should never feel shame when the crimson wave comes.
Puppet by Cassidy Mulligan
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Reminiscing Savannah Wood
Is it my heart That feels heavy on my chest like so Or is it My soul? Yearning for grander things Or maybe Reminiscing fondly On past days Younger days Happier days When I was Me
We Were Here by Jacob Lehmann
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criminals of rural mississippi Maggie Herring
In her memory the room was grey,
But if he were to place his hand upon
lightened only by the fitted white
her shoulder and trace proliferated nothings
bedsheets and overcast sun
against her spine, she’d collapse
coming through the pane.
like the t-shirt laying on the floor.
A deep green sighed
The window pane looked on
throughout the backyard.
as she drifted towards another’s frame,
Her adolescent hand pressed soundly
but her hand remained warm,
against the glass, quickly
reminding her that they were not the same.
matching her own temperature. It was springtime and she was as impressionable as the window hardened and unbroken but only because no one ever tried. Antique butter churners sat inside, and the humming of the refrigerator with distant conversations suspended the thoughts which kept her poised.
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Spring St. by Emily Kelly 57
beneath the surface Madison Kaelin He placed his lips upon her scars thinking that if he kissed them hard enough, those ugly memories of her dark days would vanish and would soon be replaced with a peaceful recollection of how someone could love the parts of her she never could
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Belladonna by Katherine Kesey
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In a Line by Hannah Rivers
knowing you Maggie Herring
Knowing you is like laying on warm concrete After church on Sunday afternoons I can feel the chiseled ground underneath my fingertips Barely molded by the world yet Knowing you is like not knowing the sun could burn my skin Because the sun thought it too harsh to show me yet Knowing you is knowing that innocent love of nothing The absolute love of bliss Knowing you is knowing there’s more to life than this That life has no limits No bounds That I could be happy If only I’d choose Someone like you But you were an innocent and endangered love That was — Meant to be held Meant to be seen Meant to be touched By fingertips more delicate than mine
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Nothing hurts Worse Than knowing that you made a mistake But I wish you knew that my skin burns in the sun now That my fingers are as chiseled as that ground on Sunday afternoons I wish you knew I know everything about everything and My innocence hates me softly in the corner for it I wish you knew it sits by the others I’ve hurt I wish you never knew you could know me In the same way that I know you I wish I didn’t feel new To you Knowing you is knowing that I could be happy Except that I couldn’t And I wouldn’t Because I’m not ready You’d sew me new wings if I’d let you But I know the sun is too hot and I’d fly too close Because I long to feel the warmth underneath my fingertips And knowing you is the only way I know how to feel again Knowing me is twisting my mouth in different directions As if to stir up a tear Because I’m indifferent Indecisive Disregarded
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I’m burnt Knowing you is like knowing every word to a song Knowing you is the beckoning silence and the calm — After you turn off the car in the drive I’m the door that needs to be opened I’m the list that calls you inside You’re the peace that begs me to stay Stay here and love — Love me away Hold Me Touch me Know me like I know you Knowing you is like knowing my mother So sweet and unfazed By my dress lying on concrete Washed out by sun rays Knowing you is knowing the slow rocking motion of The waves Beneath the dock On that Sunday afternoon With you The kind that puts you to sleep But just enough to have your eyes burn When you open up and realize It’s me
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Real Love by Helena Walters
sagefiller Margo Marie McManus
Eye contact, Passioned Intake breath. . . (
)
I can feel you in my mind, Electric, Lighting up the empty space with your presence, Charging up my thoughts, lightning striking comfort. We exhale at the same time. ______________________________Your face in my head is beautiful. I love you. ( )
I can feel it in your thoughts that you love me too. -_____________________________________________.
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An Open Letter To A Dead Friend Madison Wakefield
Dear That Friend I Thought Was Dead During September, I didn’t hear from you for 63 days. Your depression had grown on you like thick prickly vines; and when my phone lit up with the text you sent me, you blamed an evil friend for your absence in my life. Why? After endless calls leading to voicemail, filling the brim of the glass with sips of my voice echoing over and over: “Hey, it’s me again. Thinking of you. Call me back.” Not once did I end my call with a goodbye, I couldn’t bear another goodbye. It reached the point I stopped calling for you. Everytime I expected that female robotic voice reminding me that my call has been forwarded to an automated voice message system. On weekdays, I would silently weep in the two in the morning dimmed hallways of my dorm. My mind felt abused, as if it had been a soldier in battle; ached and bruised, barely holding on. Yet I would have gratefully accepted all of your demons, just to free you from your self hatred. How could you leave us out of your life? I called your mom. Not even your own fucking mother had heard from you for a month. In my head, I prepared myself for the one text, the one letter, the one call signaling me to get on a plane to fly 548 miles back for your funeral. But then you texted me. You asked how I’ve been with a green heart emoji because green has always been your favorite color. We talked and I could feel a black hole boiling up from the bottom of my stomach. This gaping abyss was a familiar comfort. I’m warmed by it’s cold, now spreading to absorb every inch of light on my body. I am happy you’re back in my life, though I will take my time to dig you from the graveyard I buried you in at the back of my mind. I know this warmth will not last and I’m scared you’re heating me up just to invite the hypothermia in. Sincerely, The friend who is scared of your goosebumps.
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The Body as a Place by Angel Estrella
reflection on the emptiness of adulthood Luna Fitzgerald
As the dream faded, she chased it, forlorn
She rubbed her frozen hands absentmindedly
The memory of something she never had, torn
With the heat that her movement created
From her chest, a hole
She stopped walking, and she waited
Unable to be filled in her soul
Every breath, every sigh
Her empty stomach ached
Held a frozen thought left to die
The food she refused to take Before venturing into the unknown
In the glacial air she stood
Alone, she roamed
Remembering briefly her childhood The heat of the summer air
Into the desert she walked
The innocence of incidental prayer
Her jacket open, head half-cocked
As the sun rose, she remained still
The frigid and stale night air
Heat from the mountain dissipating the chill
Seeping in, soaking clothes and hair
The dream had faded, just as before
Sand filled her boots, crowding her feet
But she decided to chase it, no more
Each step she took, the weight of concrete As she searched for her peace of mind The mountains loomed, far behind But before her, the moon shone with serenity Providing some solace of sanity In the endless stretches of sandy sea
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Untitled by Haley Horton
do you see yourself too? Lori Able
I watch you
to love
standing in front of your mirror—
our own image.
figures of yourself surfacing in your shining eyes.
A cycle that leads you back
I watch as you make a choice—
to your porcelain throne,
a decision of
to sit ups until your spine turns blue,
which image to accept,
to an empty plate to match an empty temple.
which truth to choose. And one day, I witness
as I looked upon your routine
As you pinch defections upon your flesh
pitying the self-deprecation I see you inflict,
behind cracked doors.
you caught my stare in your own dewy gaze,
Turning from side to side
hand mid pinch.
to be sure no imperfection
And as I turned to
is left unnoticed,
walk away
that no shame is ignored.
from the image of you
Self-loathing
I heard your whisper, asking
in ways taught to you by your own
“Do you see yourself too?”
mother and instilled in your mother by the woman who raised her, delusion reaped by the notion that perfection is the sole manner in which we are able
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growing up Erik Antonio
Growing up was going to be scary, With moments that make one wise, Rites of passage to make one legendary, Oh if only - that would have been nice, But really, growing up is like a poem that stops rhyming, One day you are just older, Life is always changing and you realize how special moments are, You realize how lucky you were to meet those people, that girl, And time marches on, like an unfeeling wave that carries us, People, places, and days pass like trees outside a moving car, But hold on, because a poem that does not rhyme can be beautiful too, Growing up - yes - it is scary, But growing up is scary because it is real, Do not be afraid if people do go, Embrace all which makes you feel, Laughing and crying both make us grow‌
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autopsy Ian Anderson
When I met you I gained a weight on my chest in your hand across it every night. Now that you’re gone it’s still there, but twisted and mangled in a way I want to forget. Two years ago I got a concussion because I was hit by a car and my head still aches sometimes to the point of being paralyzing and that’s almost exactly the same as when I met you minus the hospital visit It’s our first date, and I’m taking a picture of your perfect smile in a perfect moment and you don’t know yet that you’re going to walk away repeating that you don’t love me, I don’t make you happy anymore, that I’ll look at that picture every day I wake up beside you One day I made a playlist of songs that made me think of you that you never cared to listen to and sometimes I wonder if that was just the way we would end up anyway. And yet stay in
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I don’t remember sleeping in my own bed until you decided I couldn’t
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Transition by Angel Estrella
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Tied Up by Hannah Cupp
yours any longer Do you remember
the evening we stood at the edge of the rippling waves, the evening I almost dropped you and in that time I knew you
trusted me
despite my faults? Do you remember
the night we walked by the river wearing clothing too thin as jazz lit the air around us as we fell in love with the concept of
each other?
Don’t you wish this were
easier? Sometimes it seems that way.
Trying to forget your home isn’t easy. I found one, I found a home in the way your eyes met mine and it made my head dizzy and my hands would stop shaking if only for a moment. I wasn’t lost, I knew exactly where I was. I didn’t have a home until I met you these words are an exhuming of old memories despite the pain and I will see the autopsy through of staying alive feeling alive
So fucking
burn down the mission and maybe
it isn’t our way
maybe it’s our only way of
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