MY ANCIENT ROME

JIA KIM

I’m not the brightest person out there. I’m not the smartest, and for sure don’t understand everything. Like logarithms, the citric acid cycle, the concept of time, or colligative properties. But out of all the confusing things and people I’ve encountered, you manage to top them all. You, my darling, never fail to amaze me with how warm your smile makes me feel and the rush of blood I hear whenever you come near. There’s a joy that blooms in my heart with you by my side, and it seeds flowers and buds of affection for you in my soul. With these amazing qualities of yours, I simply cannot fathom why you would belittle your accomplishments, scar yourself with hateful intent, or even bite on your tongue to keep words from spilling out. My love, you are perfect in everything you are and do, and the fact that you don’t see your own worth confounds me beyond words. No matter the burdens you hold nor the scars that litter your soul, you are deserving of love more than any being have ever known. I cherish you as I cherish the craters in the moon, the cracks in concrete, the sting of cold air, and the rain that comes forth with rainbows. Mother Nature is not loved for her perfection, but loved for all the unique life she brings forth. And like her, you awaken the life in me and call it to sing serenades to you at night and offer the finest flowers from Eden’s garden. You worry endlessly about your appearance as if that would affect how much I love you. Rome is loved despite the cracks and how time has worn her down, and like her, I wish to capture you in photos to hang on my walls — the memory of you. You are so tired from the hurdles you were forced to shield and protect yourself from and fear that it has chipped you apart into brittle pieces; Dearest, a chipped sword doesn’t make it any less than all the other fine blades in the barracks. It is a sign of bravery and elegance that many mistake as brokenness. The flaws that you bear does not make you unloveable, but rather shapes your heart to a more unique form that my soul can recognize and forever cherish even as time will inevitably corrode my memory. It’s akin to a puzzle piece I have been unknowingly longing for, longer than lifetimes. You believe it’s coincidence — I believe it’s fate. My ancient Rome, my beauty, my flower, do not carve your skin out of hate, but feel the ones you already own and recognize them as symbols of strength and fortitude. I long for the day you’ll look at yourself the way I see you every day: a beautiful reincarnation of life itself.

Purpose Bella Pehar

We had never met by accident Instead on purpose For a bigger purpose

We don’t yet know why Can’t seem to grasp the underlying secret being passed That’s what makes us strangers; We have yet to unfold each other Share that secret

And giggle once we realize how imbecile it was And how we are no longer the strangers we thought we were.

The cup cracks under the pressure of your tea. “It’s too heavy!” It screams, pleading that you stop. You don’t hear it cause you’re in your own world. Too worried about your work that is failing at school. You’ve tried so hard to do your best, and even though the test was easy. Oh, why did you say that aloud? Soon, the tea spills over, puddling on the small saucer. It too shouts, “Please stop pouring!” You don’t hear it, the fat, red, bleeding, F sits on the table in front you just taunting. Your parents are coming home soon and you need it signed. You know what’s going to happen, and why not just forge the signature? You didn’t dare try. The tea bubbled around the lip of the saucer, draining the pot of its contents. One last drop hits the surface of the piled tea, breaking the tension. It drips onto the table, causing it to whisper. “Put down the pot.” It falls on deaf ears as you hear the door open. Alarmed, you drop the pot, watching it shatter on the ground in front of you. Your parents are going to be so disappointed when they find out you broke their favorite set. You take a deep breath and pick up the pieces. If they see you cleaning it up, you might not be in as much trouble as we were in the beginning. Working quickly, you move the broken pieces to your room, closing the door. You hear your parents’ muffled voices through the door. The bottle of glue sits on your desk, as if it was waiting for you since the beginning. Then you remember the old container of gold leaf in the back of your closet. You pull the jar out, putting next to the thing of glue. Together, you mix glue and bits of the gold in a small bowl. The gold leaf in the glue sparkled in your lamp light as you applied it to the shattered pieces of ceramic.

Eventually, you’ve put back the pot together. The only visible parts of the teapot were the bits of gold shining through. You smile, as the pot smiles back, happy that it looks better this way than it did before. You remember that not everyone is perfect and that not everything lasts forever.