DAMOZEL
The Literary Magazine of Notre Dame of Maryland University 2025-2026
Damozel Staff 2025-2026
Literary editors:
Chrys Foster, ‘27
Amanda Grant, ‘28
Hailey Guerrier, ‘26
Freya Lundgren, ‘28
Chelsea Martin, ‘26
Makenzie Morton, ‘27
Ava Stello, ‘28
Ja’Niya Whitted, ‘28
Kameron Woodrum, ‘27
Everything Inside of Her Is Dancing
She left before the morning knew her name, slipping past the hinge’s sigh of the door, a suitcase holding only what didn't break when the nights grew too loud to sleep. She told no one silence was the only thing that ever listened back.
There were days she carried shadows like extra bones, quiet, heavy, shifting beneath her skin when she moved. People called her calm, not knowing she’d simply learned how to breathe without shaking the air.
Far from the streets she once avoided, far from the room that kept its windows shut, she found a place where the wind didn’t ask questions.
A place where distance was its own language, and she learned to speak again in the soft dialect of new beginnings.
Some evenings, when light settles low and the world forgets to be cruel, she feels her ribs loosen as if something long held has finally been given permission to open its hands.
And though no one sees it, beneath the quiet rise of her breath, everything inside of her is dancing.
Amanda Grant, ‘28, English
Flower Hair Chloe Wroten, ‘29, Art Therapy
Screen
Insects have 6 legs.
Ants are insects.
Therefore, ants have 6 legs.
All of them were holding on with all the impossible might of an ant that just might make it. All the might that makes it possible for that ant which might carry twice its weight up the wall. Up up up.
Have you ever watched an ant on a windshield? I wasn’t driving. I never want to drive.
As a passenger, I was still just as guilty. A passive observer, and what could be worse?
Six legs all holding on.
As much as I bear the weight of memory, I will choose not to forget you. I think about you often. About when you first slipped and lost your gripped and went down to
Five,
Four legs all holding.
I thought you and I were watching each other. Looking through glass, I hope you also saw a mirror. I know I was no comfort.
Three legs in all.
We were so tired. Just holding on. I was rooting for you, but I still didn’t say anything.
After all, I wouldn’t want anyone to cheer for me.
Two legs, One.
I don’t like wind. I’m scared of it. The sound, the presence, it’s overwhelming. Just holding on through the gusts. I’m so tired.
Gone.
I’m so tired.
Anonymous
Joy & Jay
Ja’Niya Whitted, ‘28, Art Therapy
ROOSE
Venus says I’m beautiful in every unimaginable form where lost men search for fine fabulous gold an honor to know moi
So I wait under the promising stars
Clinging to an illusion palace and purgatory of butchered fantasies
Surely they will come But the men never did
I forgot Venus ages ago Including the promises the fine gold and great form what a tragedy of my own design
Kaden Nzaro, ‘28, Biology
Hunt 1
Kali Young, ‘27, Art Therapy
Silence
I walk into the quiet room, hearing only my breath and the soft creek of my footsteps.
I tiptoe into the next room no one is there.
I stand still, holding my breath, letting the silence close in around me. I make a cup of tea, turn the TV on just to hear something other than my own thoughts.
I sip slowly and rock in my chair until the quiet settles and I slowly drift into sleep.
Amani Watts, ‘27, Health Science
Purple Throne
Chelsea Martin, ‘26, English
The Shape of Submission
Faint of heart made me in the dawn of self-reflection and mind manipulation the answers to the problems never arise
I sit and sacrifice the right to do more, the right to live freely, the right to do good. But there is no peace in sacrifice whether it’s for thy god, or thy mother, or thy father. no excuse, no holy purpose offers nobility And in surrendering yourself to suffering, in order to fulfill the desires of others. you will note all the rights never undid the wrongs. and by defending the misdeeds whether misguided or oppressed the vicious, savage nature of it all is poison.
it infects, And it wreaks havoc on my world. the world.
bitter as ever, we live with the flaws, built to defend a system that needs to be changed. the human race deflects the need to bear their claws, so who bears the liability its time to name names for all that’s been amended. for the way hands have been greased we deal with the hand we are dealt and faint of heart becomes not taking accountability
Spirit Jones, ‘28, Nursing
Morning Frost
Melissa Martin
How to Build a House
With sticks and stones I seem to build around my struggles, my imperfections. An unorthodox architect am I, creating light from darkness. I excavate and analyze the sources and solutions. I build a strong foundation, however delusional, disillusioned. I work tirelessly, pushing possibilities of progress uphill. It’s somewhat satisfying, rewarding even, to look back on my labyrinthine perfection. For every problem I map a way out, endlessly piecing together a picture which shifts slightly every minute. Unperturbed, I take it lightly. I build, and on I build, until the solution’s original problem’s source is hidden by drywall. The resulting twists and turns produce tight corridors with some doors closed and boarded, others slightly ajar, some doors leading nowhere- I haven’t built that far yet. I make the rooms pretty with nice coats of paint.
I put so much effort into all of this.
And yet, I still find problems, but they now come from my solutions. My structures are strong, but they cause me to crumble. The rocks I pushed up the hills of possibilities all roll back down.
I want to emphasize the beauty of the home for the materials I was given, and the ground on which I built.
I put so much effort into all of this. I tried to make it pretty.
And yet, I still read the how-tos of building houses, and I still find them of no use, overshadowed by irrelevance, for someone unlike me.
And yet I still begin to see that this house is not fit to live in.
For the sticks and stones that make my bones still break them all the same.
Anonymous
Candlelit
Marin Ruck, ‘28, Art Therapy
Lost in Translation
You didn’t mean for your words to be taken that way
They raced from your mouth before your mind could catch up
They were dripping in remorse
Coated in guilt that wasn’t yours to carry
“Sometimes who you are hurts me”
Just six words, but a lifetime of repressed emotions
It can’t be easy, having to endure a life with me
I siphon the joy out of a room like a well being drained
In the electric atmosphere of a club packed with lively spirits
I’m the dark cloud dampening your mood
Raining on your parade
I don’t know how to be anything but my somber self (I would if I could)
I wish I was different (if not for me, then you)
This morbid sadness clings to my interior like a coat (I wonder what it feels like to be you)
This conversation will drift from your mind by tomorrow
It’s nothing more than a cloud that chooses to grace the sky with its presence for a moment
A temporary transgression that we’ve already resolved
But I’ll remember and hold onto the way you looked when your long-held truth was released
The immediate look of shock and regret when it registered what you had said
But more strikingly, the shadow of satisfaction and relief that briefly passed your features
I wonder how it felt to have that weight lifted off your shoulders
I don’t know what it’s like to be you, you don’t know what it’s like to be me
But six words is all it took to wonder how you truly see me
“Sometimes who you are hurts me”
Chelsea Martin, ‘26, English
Fading Sunset
Summara Abaid, ‘17, Biology
The Fork in the Road
It started with a twist, a snap, As I returned from the heavens My knee, once sturdy, now powder,
The world grew smaller overnight, Each step a test, each bend painful. The rhythm of my sporadic life Now paused, paranoid, scared, and stressed.
At first, I cursed the world for this tragedy, Then braced for the long road ahead. Judgement day came, I seemed, at peace
I came out the hospital healed yet broken Quiet hours of contemplation hung. A different kind of hopelessness, defeating Not in spirit, but mentally, I faltered fiercely
Acceptance and Growth was my new reality, Acceptance became my new best friend, And Growth was my crutch, my muse.
Each rehab rep, each breath I took, It was proof that healing’s not a race.
The battle scars bold like bullet holes That marked my traumatic experience.
And though I had a long road to go, Months of misery, weeks of will, Days of despair and minutes of motivation.
Like a fever dream the nightmare was over Not fast but like a fanned flame...Fading The realization was scary but I was ready But Acceptance and Growth still weighs heavy
Dylan Long
Log
Kameron Woodrum, ‘27, Computer Information Systems
An Ode to My Hijab and Niqab
Oh hijab, so warm and comfortable. They come in all colors and fabrics. They cover my hair, a substitute for modesty. They reveal my religious beliefs. They have a very strong meaning to me.
The black jersey one was my very first hijab, The gray jersey one is from a friend, The yellow chiffon one is my favorite, a stab at vibrant colors within a dark world, Held in place by my protective niqab.
The small opening allows for sight, Enables me to see the world without being seen. To many it symbolizes oppression, but it brings me protection.
Protection from disbelievers and those with hatred in their hearts.
I’ll cherish these fabrics for as long as they’re with me, And wear them proudly, representing what I stand for.
Zakiya Beauvoir, ‘28, Graphic Design
Building 2
Chelsea Martin, ‘26, English
Question?
I knew I did not need this anymore when I started to question myself
“Why can’t I question you?” I said The way you spoke was dark, disturbing, and degrading Yet in my head I became Weird, unusual, and strange
I question which is more harmful The way my mind contorts to negativity Or the person who corrupts it thinking: are you strong because you did it or am I weak because I let you? and am I strong because I know it’s wrong or am I weak because it still affects me?
Though it's a battle I know I’ll never win I still want to ask where do we go from here Can I demand an apology? And if I do, will you become a better man? Will you look me in the eye now? Or shall I submit to the king like the pawn I am?
I'm not sure what I'm asking anymore and I’m not sure if you’d understand
Oh, to be a monster preaching the teachings of a truly good man
Spirit Jones, ‘28, Nursing
Illusions
Summara Abaid, ‘17, Biology
Give Thanks
Give thanks to God in all you do. Gratitude is the base of a positive attitude. The invisible key to abundance, a life of happiness and content.
My mother’s favorite saying, repeated so much it’s more than a whisper of wisdom it’s a way of life.
Ironic or intentional, prophetic or mnemonic, maybe just divine timing. My grandfather named me Disomi in our language, “thanks to God” and “God’s love.”
So in all I do, especially in all I receive, I give thanks. In a world so dark, where selfishness rises and individualism feels like the key to survival.
In this world of I’s and Me’s, remember to give thanks to the higher being
the one who paved your way, protected and blessed you, so you know it’s God’s love.
Disomi Okie, ‘26, Biology
Blue Jay
Madelynn Hildebrand, ’26, Art Therapy
The Thought I Almost Have
The quiet takes an unpleasant texture
Rooted within me, it wraps around my spine
A thought I keep almost having leaves me with a tremor
Too dark, but still too pure
The low hum beneath the earth should be enough of a sign
The quiet takes an unpleasant texture
Time bends into an unnatural posture
Would the haunting stop if I created a shrine?
A thought I keep almost having leaves me with a tremor
Words left unsaid, silenced beyond measure
A confession crawls up my throat but comes out a whine
The quiet takes an unpleasant texture
The calm gave way to chaos, always tethered
A delicate balancing act by design
A thought I keep almost having leaves me with a tremor
Grave nights where we almost buckled under pressure
Two stories, one truth, but never aligned
The quiet takes an unpleasant texture
A thought I keep almost having leaves me with a tremor
Chelsea Martin, ‘26, English
Cricket
Rebecca Malone, Biology
Little Prickles
The prickles, they won’t stop imagine oscillations eternally altering a line so it may appear fuzzy rather than precise i saw a fuzzy caterpillar today it was walking, inching along the sidewalk, going straight, across the lines the sidewalk probably felt it the World is so big and the air in the atmosphere prickles
Little Caterpillar, you must be lost can you please tell me how to do this i walk across the sidewalk with shaky hands eyes looking down or going this way and that
We are both too fuzzy for this world of little prickles.
Anonymous
Winter’s Last Blast
Melissa Martin
i The Variable, I The Person
I tried, I tried! Swear, cross my heart and seriously hope to die
As I, once again, become stranded in the numerical lies.
Yes, the equations are mathematically correct, but to my calling? “i” calls for “y” Leaving I to ask why?
Copy what’s on the white bore, sorry I mean white board,
But once the numbers come into play, I see this subject as nothing more than a chore. Nothing less. I digress,
Maybe this will be used in the near future, I guess.
No one can count these numbers for me so I must lock in,
Focus on the lady who’s droning again.
She’s amazing in nature, but lady, why must you bore me?
Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you're not the one who chose this for me.
I= me as the individual
i= me as a variable in this equation.
*sniffles* My nose runs, but not quicker than my brain, as it aims to find refuge from the streaks and the stains of my greatest fear today. Math class. I wipe my nose as she wipes the screen of the monsters who tend to mock me, making sure that I’ll always fear them intensely, oh the horror of inescapable counting, and nothing more. There is no room for thought in this white-lighted subject. There’s none of the caught expressions I seek. The creative syllables I yearn for are given in the form of equations, and even then, it's drenched in numbers, oh how they wreak! Give me a place to express myself and I’m rosy-cheeked. I feel guilty for bashing the simple complexities of this craft, for it has no use in using me. For me, it did not ask, but as always, it keeps abusing me.
Chrys Foster, ‘27, English
Flower Field Dreams
Summara Abaid, ‘17, Biology
I
Wish I Could Be Beautiful
I wish I could be beautiful.
I wish I could be beautiful, Not to the eyes of others, But to my own.
Ever since I was little, I obsessively looked in magazines At girls much older and prettier than me.
I told myself, Three feet from the mirror, That one day I too would grow and be beautiful.
That day never came. Now I stand three feet from the mirror, Unable to see any beauty.
Many may not believe me When I say I try.
Loving myself is a battlefield Where I have died.
Madelynn Hildebrand, ’26, Art Therapy
Nina’s Nails
Chelsea Martin, ‘26, English
After the Flood
It began with rain, soft as apology a drizzle that promised nothing but green. Then came the swollen clouds, mouths full of wanting, pressing against the sky’s thin skin until it broke.
The fields never said no. The river only widened, pulling down fences, lifting what was meant to stay still.
When morning came, the sun looked away.
Every blade of grass leaned wrong, and the soil heavy, dark with memory would not take seed again.
Now when it rains, the earth pretends to drink but does not swallow
Amanda Grant, ‘28, English
Birdnest
Kameron Woodrum, ‘27, Computer Information Systems
The Ghost of War
I wear no face, yet all have seen me
My shadow lives in enemies' nightmares. Once an innocent child, now a machine, Molded through endless trauma and pain.
I do not sleep and I do not rest. Amongst shadows I dwell, ready, waiting In theory I don’t exist concealed in lies, But my job is above classified..
While many seek glory, I seek purpose. I long for the hunt, eager to work
My flag subdued, my name unknown, Forged from the blood of my enemies.
Authors write of my heroic sacrifice, But never dare to speak my name. The government knows, all stories true, but No one knows the horror of what I can do.
The tip of the spear, funded by freedom. I make my enemies fear the dark. I gave up my life so you may rest A quiet storm, like death in the wind.
One moment I’m there and next I’m not.
A phantom in the night, a fly on the wall And when the time comes, I don’t ask why. I do my job and wait for another call.
Dylan Long
Body Image
Chloe Wroten, ‘29, Art Therapy
I Watch You From Afar
I watch you from afar
As you hesitate to write
Your hand lowers to the page
Once Twice
Three times
Before you write four words
Words you immediately hate and cross out
You try again
Writing faster to seize the essence of what strikes your thoughts
Because nothing you write captures the beauty, The poetical lilt of the first words that float through your mind
Raw, unfiltered, void of the weight of your insecurities
That otherwise touch everything you create
You’re the writer who’s never satisfied with what comes to fruition
When compared to what lives in her mind
From across the room
You look like an artist hard at work
The silence surrounding you sits heavy in the room
Permeating every inch of the air
The only sounds audible
The scratch of your pencil ceaselessly scribbling against paper
Immediately followed by an abrasive rubbing
The friction of an eraser removing all traces of what once graced the page
To the unknowing eye, You’re in the midst of brilliance
Carefully crafting your next masterpiece
But because I watch you from afar
I know that’s not true
What appears as rumination Is really self-loathing
The writer who constructs elegant sonnets in her head
But never puts a word on paper
Plagued by insecurities and doubt, The best of her words exist within her mind
Known only to her and those who watch
Chelsea Martin, ‘26, English
Hometown
Summara Abaid, ‘17, Biology
The Search
I am Elena
Stuck in a dimension of unknowing
My father’s descent from an archipelago originally called “rich port”
When blood runs down my skin, I hear the word “Si no sana hoy, sanara mañana”
I longed to know where those words came from My life spent wondering where that fifty percent originated from
Wanting to know more history, so I search…
I am Juan Ponce de Leon, Explorer and conquer, Governor of men before the start of assimilation
I am Jose Julian, writer of words advocating for the freedom of those who make us, us
SPANARDS, TIANO INDIANS, AND AFRICANS
I am Mariana Bracetti, Creator of the early version of red, white, and blue
Not with the fifty stars but the one
My father treasures this symbol as it hangs from his mirror
Staring at his identity as it stares at him
I am a coquí,
The amphibian that tells a story of love
As the sun lowers, the volume rises on the beautiful island
“CO-QUI” “CO-QUI”
I am the flame tree,
Given the name because of the fiery red flowers that sit upon my bark
El Flamboyan is more than a tree, it is pride
I am Luisa Capetillo,
Organizer and activist,
Improving the rights of women
“MI OPINION”
Juan Ponce de Leon was not the only first when it comes to governor of men
Sila Maria Calderon was governor of men and women
1898 came with more than just the raising of the thirteen stripes
Claiming the lands and sugar but not the people
General Nelson Miles promising the unalienable rights to Puerto Ricans
This promise was not a promise, but a lie
Little did the men who would not have beaten the Spaniards without the blood, sweat, and tears of Boricuas know…
THE LAND IS STILL OURS
I search and will never stop
For the Boricua descent runs through my blood
The same blood that ran down my skin when I heard the words,
“If it doesn’t heal today, it will heal tomorrow”
I shed tears for the harsh past But smile for what has yet been learned No longer stuck in a dimension of unknowing, but of curiosity
Yo soy Elena
Elena Rodriguez
Our House
We’re the worst house on the street. There are others far dirtier, but we used to mask its hollowness. Now we’re far too tired to imitate contentment, let alone happiness. I think that’s what makes us worse. The shingles have chipped and shifted. Every time I drive away, I can see its crooked teeth gritting at me, daring me to leave. Our neighbors tell us the house was much worse before we moved in, but I find that awfully hard to believe. It may have been remodeled, but its spirit remains decrepit. Every minute of every day, I am reminded of this by the smell of the rot permeating from its limbs. But my friends tell me I smell just like the house.
Mom was used to the tall and thin rowhomes that our city bore. She wanted to get out. “It’s not the same anymore,” so we agreed. She liked the acre yard, even if it lacked all but weeds. She thought the long driveway was lavish until its endless rocks became trapped in the rims of her Jetta, laughing at her with each rotation. The garage was parallel to the house at the very end of the driveway. It was relatively empty aside from lawn tools and a bike I never learned to ride. My father wanted to turn it into a gym, and my mother wanted to turn it into a craft room. Instead, it ended up housing all the
molded belongings my grandmother left in the wake of her sudden death. The house never lived up to her expectations, and neither did he.
I remember being excited to move in. The very first night, we slept on our mattress in the living room. In the following months, we decorated the rooms one by one. Mom chose a completely different color for each. Soon after, pinks, purples, yellows, and blues littered our home. We cooked, and we cleaned, and we slept as one. Now, none of us dares to sleep in the same room as another. We are too complicit in each other’s misery to live as one. The brightness of the walls served only to mock our bleakness, and so we painted them grey. We say it’s to appease future buyers, but we all know it wouldn’t be right to leave the house.
Looking out of my bedroom, I watch Mom read in the living room while he cooks in the kitchen. The open floor plan with half walls allows them equal parts separation and togetherness. The house knows just how to maintain a marriage. Every night, when we gather to eat, Mom and I sit across from him at the kitchen island. And every night, I watch as the condensation drips down his glass of whiskey. I cannot count how many times I’ve wished to melt away into the table as they do. Smeared and wiped away and discarded. Mom told me it’s what she
thought she’d do with me. To this day, I wonder why she didn’t.
Ava Stello, ‘28, Nursing & English
Through the Eyes of Something New (2) Sloan Glover, ‘28, Communication Arts
Harmony
Rebecca Malone, Biology
The Abyss
You looked like a secret the world hadn’t yet touched
Untarnished by the ruin of thunderstorms or time
I used to count your breaths in the dark
Marking each soft sigh between the quiet symphony performed by the insects outside our window
I wanted to know if your heart would beat just for me
If the wind carried your heartbeat towards mine
Where breath met breath
We were just two hearts learning a new rhythm
The silence that followed your departure was heavier than any scream could be
Even the cacophony of noise bleeding from the streets was featherlight in the chasm left by your absence
But this quiet was deceptive, a calm pool before the river tumbles down the falls
What followed was a torrent of thoughts, regrets rushing through my mind
Like water through a sieve, I could barely catch one
Maybe what we shared was just a moment, a season, and I’d made it into a story, our forever
But I’ll miss the part where I didn’t how much I had to lose
And how much I could keep
Because when you left, the flowers in the meadow began to wilt
While I was left with the sunlight I carried in the name of loving you
Chelsea Martin, ‘26, English
Sunlit Too Summara Abaid, ‘17, Biology
The Glassflower
I look around and take a breath
Here and now I can finally focus
In the wild I see it
I feel it like a glassflower
That may be easily broken
Receiving and reflecting the sun from it
I can never entirely receive the sun or I would dry up and die
But like a glass I can never be full Or to others, maybe too empty
And once I am empty, I am pointless
Just like how pointless broken glass is
Even though glass may stay forever
At any moment I could shatter
In pieces without a second thought
Be swept away like wind
Never to be fully seen or thought of again
Broken into little pieces
That cannot be fixed
But those pieces can never be used again
London Mare’a Washington, ‘28, Philosophy
Happiness
Frolicking through the park, the sun brushes gently across my face. The sky is baby blue, the wind moves softly, and the breeze feels like a warm reminder to breathe.
I begin skipping, light on my feet, until I trip on something but before I can look down, I’m lying in a bed of flowers.
Light pink petals surround me, soft against my skin, They have a sweet and gentle scent.
Before standing, I sweep my arms and legs through the blossoms, making flower angels, laughing to myself the whole time.
Amani Watts, ‘27, Health Science
NDMU Lawn
Kameron Woodrum, ‘27, Computer Information Systems
We Looked at
the Moon
Heads back, Necks stretched toward the sky. We behold her beauty, With stars in our eyes.
Cancer sun, cancer moon, She rules me, I feel her pull.
Waxing and waning, High and low tide. Fierce as the deep blue sea, I am her; she is me.
We looked at the Moon, Fingers interlocked. Quick glances and shy smiles. Do you see me? Come and sit for a while.
Makenzie Morton, ‘27, Psychology
Floating Particles
Summara Abaid, ‘17, Biology
“No Solo Es Un Paso” (It’s Not Just a Step)
It starts with a breath Grows as a small tremble It becomes a heel on the floor, memorable and strong like when the clock strikes at 12
A memory of the past, but not forgotten, like when Cinderella lost her glass slipper.
The crowd sees motion, but the dancer embodies the history. Generations echo in her veins, their laughter and grief shaped her rhythm.
No solo es un paso, it’s a statement of strength disguised as grace, Every turn, every stomp, every shake means pride and remembrance of many forgotten names. When the music ends, the silence transforms into hums She bows not to applause,
but to the ancestors who taught her it’s not just a step, it’s cultural appreciation to dance and music
Disomi Okie, ‘26, Biology
Buzzing By Rebecca Malone, Biology
The Afterlife
In the whisper of the dawn break
The scripture lies in all eternity
Sandy temple from an old pyramid rises In between the crevasses
An old relic has opened up
A light beamed in middle
These deep routes all line up to it essence from within comes scratching
The sand whirls like a tornado
Breach of ghastly screams from the deep hallways
I hear sounds of gates opening with a huge gold ring around it
Is it my time?
Jamari Morton
Burst
Chelsea Martin, ‘26, English
UGH, Because
Icky, messy, beautiful, and fun, You whirl my encephalon for a most (un)wanted ride
All while I (don’t) attempt to run or hide Because I am fine with watching you grow at my demise.
UGH
Are solo lessons enough? I can not teach you how to reach for ambition. Our solo sessions have come to a recession And I will not rush to see the next time we touch, Because my body has a clearer vision. An abstinence decision.
UGH
You're admirable, but I am disgusted with you. Nauseated love-like, spiralling, and hindsight Is always clearer,
But I fear that looking back is apart of what im abstaining from UGH
MY GOSH, GROW UP
Patience is pivotal, Leaks out from beneath my feet, Now, there's none left, For you...
For me.
Chrystina Foster, ‘27, English
NDMU Landscape
Kameron Woodrum, ‘27, Computer Information Systems
Ghost
No one knows I died
No one knows my pain
But it killed me it really killed me
I wrote letters.
I argued.
And I pleaded
And nothing broke through
It’s almost been a year now
And my mind keeps circling back for more
Because what more could I have done?
Through a million what ifs, I land on several
Maybe I would have been fine if I had shown a different side of me
Maybe another me could have made it
Maybe she could have been spared from the pain
Because like a moth to a flame, others will come bright, shiny, and new
They will give their all to you
and then all I can do is pray it’s not too much
Soon enough it’ll be five years from then
And I’ll still be wondering How can I let this be?
How can I let this be the past when I know how bad it was
How can I let this be and fear for someone else to know it too
Because I can’t let it go
If I know that you’ll haunt more than me
And I’ll never know if you do
In my grief I keep thinking
No one knows that I died
No one knows of me
Forever stuck as a ghost, While you walk free
Putting others’ lives on the line
Pretending you never ruined mine
Spirit Jones, ‘28, Nursing
New Hopes
Summara Abaid, ‘17, Biology
Just Half a Page
I’m not moving until I write half a page. It’s called motivation, and I definitely, totally, 100% have it. I just have to keep telling myself “I want this” “I can do this.” I have no problems with productivity, because I can do anything I want, and I will choose to do something that will help myself and others.
She is a good student. She does the work exactly the way it should be done, exactly the amount she should do it. She is average, and not lesser or exceptional or any way. She enjoys work, but is not obsessive. I will not be obsessive.
I will not be obsessive. I will not be obsessive.
I will be satisfied when I write that check mark. It’s called manifestation, and it definitely, totally, 100% works. Just watch.
It’s called OCD, and I definitely, totally, 100% have it. I just have to keep telling myself “No” “I can’t do this” “It’s wrong it’s all wrong.” I do have problems with productivity, because I can do anything I want, and I will choose to do nothing. She just wants to be a good student. She does the work exactly the way her mind dictates she should do it. She is gifted in some ways, which just means she’s even more of a failure and a waste of potential. She enjoys work, but in an allor-nothing way. She obsesses
I’m obsessing I’m distressing I’m resisting I’m just testing the limits the boundaries the rules the structures I’m obsessing obsessing obsessing.
It’s only working hard or hardly working It’s around every corner lurking It’s always one one more thing Check marks don’t exist here. It’s called doing the right thing, okay?!
Anonymous
Dew Drop
Rebecca Malone, Biology
Dreamy Nights
tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, her name faint on my lips beauty & pain she holds with a kiss the night silently prays as the morning yearns for light my deepest thoughts belong to a darken night these tears burn with passion masochist I call myself only Boseman knows my poems
Kaden Nzaro, ‘28, Biology
Yellow Sun Vice
Chelsea Martin, ‘26, English
six steps from the window
i’m like...crumbling. every move forward feels good, but then i look down and i end up stumbling. the mud on my feet is layered. so moist i can’t even feel my feet and the pain they’re enduring. i'm walking in the woods, searching for peace, there are houses. i could knock, ask, and get help. crazy thing is which of the houses will have that warm feeling? ones that won’t leave me questioning what i’m feeling. see, all homes have their bit of hardship. life can be a battlefield. and i don’t knock on the ones i presume so; less and less houses. so i walk and walk. maybe a home will open their door. and just look at me, look at the pain in my eyes, or slouched walk. but like i said, there’s so much hardship no has time to look out the window.
even i get so close to the cold and foggy window pane. and i cower.
Ja’Niya Whitted, ’28, Art Therapy
Bird
Madelynn Hildebrand, ’26, Art Therapy
Azure
Her lips, once stained, purposeful inhalation, and locked hair to which I no longer bear the key. Our bodies are painfully distant, souls even further in location, my love, why must you always stray away from me? I get it, for instance, she can give you what you need. Admit it, the distance, she’s closer to you than I am. But do you understand the agony, my heart is left to bleed, I hope you know there ain't a soul that can love you like I can. She’s pretty though, I can confess through the pain. You have a type. Similar to my existence, though I've never met her. Although you mistreated, manipulated, and played this twisted game, I wish you nothing but jubilation as tear drops finally dry off my sweaters. I’m not difficult, right? Just easily love me! Why am I the only one willing to fight? How this infuriates, more like an explosion is emulating me. I still want you, blue, the pain stems from knowing you don’t want me to. The next stage…
Azure, No More
Jumping for joy, I’m free! Free to indulge in as many beauties as I please! Glee! Woe is me! I have
no restraint! To be! Watch my promiscuous ways seep into the veins of those who dare. But despite my new found freedom, I have yet to branch off the stability tree. I’d love to go crazy, to completely lose my mind, to deliberately and shamelessly leave my worries behind. But the fear of regret, anticipating embarrassment. I’d much rather see my actions clearly, than to walk with the blind. Maybe for a day? I hypothesize this, but there's simply no way. Heck, you’ve really disturbed my peace. You always do, and I've become accustomed to. How you lift me high, similar to my herbal leaf, then drop me once you’ve found your new muse. I don't mean to put up such a fuss. Treat her better, be fair for once. Gently carry her feather, to love her properly is a must.
Chrystina Foster, ’27, English
