The Lavender Issue 10: Excess

Winter 2023

Coco Brooks

About Us:

The Lavender is Wesleyan’s student-run poetry and prose literary magazine that publishes twice a semester. The literary magazine is run under the Route 9 Literary Collective which also publishes a multitude of other projects including Pre-Good, Good Condition, Poems of Our Climate, The Route 9 Anthology, and more. Learn more at route9.org.

Why The Lavender?:

The Lavender is an homage to the fact that Wesleyan University’s official color used to be lavender. The color was changed because, according to an October 1884 issue of The Argus, lavender was not suitable for intercollegiate sports. “Lavender is not a striking color,” the article proclaimed. Well, 1884 critic, we here at The Lavender find the color incredibly striking.

Why Route 9?:

Route 9 is the road that connects Middletown to the rest of Connecticut. It is the central artery of movement that every Wesleyan student, faculty, staff, and Middletown resident has driven on. It connects us and moves us forward.

Content Warning:

Some of the pieces in this magazine have references to violence, death and eating disorders.

The Lavender Team

Editor-in-Chief: Imogen Shearmur

Managing Editors: Samantha Hager & Alex Short

Poetry Editor: Mia Alexander

Assistant Poetry Editor: Mel Cort

Prose Editor: Hyacinth Scheinfeld

Design Editors: Spencer Klink & Madeleine Metzger

Assistant Design Editor: Sonia Menken

Copy Editor: Ben Gertner

The Team: Eli Hoag, Jane Weitz, Nathaniel Greenfield, Kai Paik, Megan Arias, Sonia Menken, Eliza Bryson, Eli Marcus, Tasmiah Akter, Hannah Langer, Isha Bah, Erick Buendia, Mahek Uttamchandani, Ellen Ryan, Ana Ziebarth, Sarann Spiegel, Phoebe Levitsky, Noa Koffman-Adsit, Mel Cort, Kaira Gupta, Tyler Asher, Eden Richman, Dikshya Kuikel, Leandra Sze, Oliver Brown, Sophia Molina

Front Cover Design: Jane Lillard

Back Cover: Jonah Barton

Logo Design: Leo Egger

Special Thanks to: The heroes at 54 Home Ave., all the dear friends who make this magazine possible, Oliver Egger, Merve Emre, Amy Bloom, Ryan Launder, Alpha Delta Phi, The Shapiro Writing Center, The Wesleyan English Department, The Green Fund, and the SBC.

This Issue is Dedicated to Allison Shearmur

Dear Reader,

The theme of this issue is “excess,” which includes rundlemorphized acidity, Hasidic hipsters, and being geeked off the clortlewidth, among other things. And while there’s certainly an excess of these excessive phrases, the pieces featured in this issue encapsulate a wide scope of what it means to be excessive—whether that’s excessively resonant, excessively hilarious, or simply excessively good writing!

We’d like to take a moment to thank the people who made this issue possible. To the poetry editing team–thank you for your presence, your kindness, and, most importantly, for keeping evil Mia on the whiteboard where she belongs. To the prose editing team—thank you for always sharing your voice, for heated debates over POVs, and for never reading the pieces beforehand (but maybe someday that will change)!

Thank you to Mel Cort (Court) for being a spreadsheet warrior and the best (and funniest!) assistant poetry editor one could ask for. Thank you to Jane Weitz, the newest member of our team, for putting the lit in literary. We’re so excited for the parties to come!

Thank you to the design team, Madeleine and Spencer, for laboring over countless details that make this magazine the thing you’re holding right now—often in the final hours, often when the rest of us have left Shapiro. This magazine wouldn’t be nearly as excessively beautiful without you.

To the managing editors, Sammi and Alex, thank you for taking care of all the behind-the-scenes work, which often goes unrecognized—in your immaculate organization, you’ve made it so easy for us to be immaculately unorganized.

Finally, Immi, for holding the Lavender all together. Nothing about this is easy, but you’ve somehow made it look effortless. From organizing the best collage (one might even say college) party we’ve ever attended to coming up with the most endearing, hilarious, and excessive icebreakers known to man. We’re so excessively grateful for all you do.

And, finally, thank you readers for bearing with us. We hope you don’t find this issue too excessive!

With love, Hyacinth & Mia

Adam’s First Bath

By Liv Snow

They had been walking for days When they stumbled across a stream in the wilderness— The wildest of wildernesses.

And Adam asked Eve, “Eve, will you make me clean?” And Eve did not know what to say For how could she make this Man clean? Can a woman do the work of God?

She looked the Man up and down and said, “Yes, Adam. I will try.”

So she guided him down to the riverbed

To join the clear water.

She washed his shoulders with virtue

So that the pride slipped off of his body like slickened sand

His skin became smooth

As she grazed it with a pumice of kindness

She ran her fingers across his back

Tenderly, as a wife does

So that the anger of dirt was replaced with the shine of sunlight.

Eve bathed Adam

From the ends of his never-brushed hair

To the tips of his never-rinsed feet

And though she did not know wholly what she did

As she did it

She made Adam clean.

Adam emerged from the bubbling stream, triumphant

Adorned with the flowers of Eve, her many perfumes and creams

Bells laced by his ankles; ribbons along his wrists

Dripping with the luxury of Mankind

He stood tall

Face aglow, smile returned— For Man was Man again.

Eve asked Adam, “Adam, will you make me clean?”

Adam told Eve, “Oh. I do not know how.”

And they walked on.

Collage by Vansh Kapoor

It was No Garden

By Rufous Sledge

Rotation is a revolver to which bushels kneel

Too-Husky Cornwald (but a dart to a shield)

Camouflage flows (drink the hide, hide)

Plant those ears in Silica-State

Purnascuous winds plow these feels

Hethrewgreenattheinn

Hethoughtitwasafield

O’twas no garden! Hear keel!

Shooting-Sauce don’t grow in the real

On the Settle

By Rufous Sledge

NationCity, Oh O’Righteous Sirens

Potent Hum, she was a Galactus-Cheyenne

Corp’d off the cradle, Steam-Punk rodeliations

A pint of Busch

Needle the carpet (O’Fibrous One, Fly on)

A pint of Busch and some fresh Nation feeling

Play pretend fluids for “Rundlemorphized Acidity”

Cover all Bases

Vine Dance

By Rufous Sledge

A degree under blankets of Bush

Mills of foliage for folly fruit

Geeked off the clortlewidth (Eyesomorphic Scaries)

Hallucy-Fallacious Berries

Six of Iris drown Lochs of No System

Thermal conductivity of Level Next for Next Next

Mother Shade won’t leaf the unhidden

You Oaf, The Silly!

You Focus Bush Gnat (Smetchy, Smetchy)

Eden Mae Richman and Valentina Arnold

she wonders about rainbows

By Michaela Somers

Honey pouring over the horizon, like a door cracking open as the red of dawn lifts, until it burns white.

There’s a girl somewhere opening to the morning. She happens upon herself in these in-between places, the hue of marigolds.

And there, her one window which the sun can leak through, and the newly biting wind can drift. her breath then, so warm; floating so high it may make home amongst the stars.

She remembers, watching the squirrels, of the glitter and gold in the blood of it all.

How there is more light in the world than there are eyes to take it in.

Collageby MiaAlexander

The Top Five Most Embarrassing Things That Happened To Me When

I Was Eight:

By Alex Short

5. My best friend was a girl with small, far-apart teeth named Anna. One sleepover, we stayed up late describing our dream weddings and stumbled upon a treasure trove of Family Guy episodes recorded on the Rec Room TV. We only made it a few episodes before Quagmire killed a prostitute and I got so upset that I started crying.

4. I knew Barbie dolls were for little kids, something I was desperate not to be. I kept all my dolls hidden in a blue Skechers box under my bed, carefully stacking the rejects (the headless hand-medowns from my mom) at the bottom of the box, and my favorites (the ones with the smallest waists) at the top. Once, though, I forgot this ritual, and my across-the-street-neighbor glimpsed the dolls strewn across my pink shag rug like a horrible plastic crime scene. He smirked and quipped, “nice headless Barbies.” The next day at school, I started a rumor that he was adopted.

3. The boy I had a crush on wore circular glasses and played trumpet in the school band. He danced with me five times during ballroom class in the church basement, which I took as proof that he wanted me bad. Unfortunately, during the 100th Day of School pizza party, he stopped me on my way to the bean bag chair to tell me I was annoying and had Spongebob teeth. To cope with my heartbreak, I wrote his name on a piece of paper, crumpled it up, and slept with it under my pillow.

2. In the summer, the whole block came by for a party at my house, and we laid a tarp down in my front yard and ran the hose on it. I took a running start, and slammed down on the makeshift water slide, skidding a few inches before popping up and striking a pose. I realized too late that one of the straps of my electric blue Justice tank top had slipped down, leaving my right nipple exposed. I quickly adjusted the strap, praying no one noticed. I thought I had gotten away with it, until later, after my mom brought out the watermelon cubes

and Hi-C juice boxes. The snot-nosed second grader who lived three houses down pointed at my chest and said “I saw your thing.”

1. I prank-called a boy in my class and pretended to be an old lady. I just talked in a shaky voice and said things like “Granny made cookies for you, dearie.” It seems like a pretty weak bit now, but at the time it was a big hit. Zoey, who lived two blocks away, laughed so hard she almost peed her emoji-print leggings.

Eventually, the boy figured out what was going on and brought out the big guns: he told his mom. Over the phone, the mom demanded to speak to my parents. Thinking quickly, I lied and said that they weren’t home. She assured me they would be hearing from her, and I wondered if they would have to come with me when I was inevitably sent to prison. I toyed with the idea of throwing Zoey under the bus. Maybe if I would’ve, if I had the ability to speak, but all I could do was hyperventilate into the receiver and listen to the voice on the other end telling me that I was in big, big trouble.

I hung up the phone and watched the turquoise walls of my PBteenchic bedroom close in on me. My life was over. I panicked, and in my state of hysteria did the unthinkable. I showed Zoey the Barbies I was too old to play with, opening the top of the blue box and screaming, “Someone might as well know the truth!” Then I laid on the carpet and cried so hard I threw up, and Zoey had to go get my mom to clean it up.

Collage by Alex Short

Word to the Wise:

By Celeste Borletti

Come come

Hurry hurry

And please, my friend, be quick!

If you blink

Just one bit

You’ll miss this silly little lyric.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “How curious, how bizarre For these words, so pristine, to come from a molar.”

Well you see, dear friend, That is where you are wrong For I am not any old refuse But the most special chomper of all: The Wisdom Tooth.

I know you’ve removed me Torn me ruthlessly from my abode But I (unlike you) do not accept The end of the road.

If you humbled yourself, For just a moment or two, Maybe you would notice That even teeth have counsel worthy of your focus. So:

“Do not let your youth be torn out with your tooth!”

Preserve a little innocence

Don’t let yourself get bitter

Even though you got your wisdom teeth out, You’re really not much bigger. The dentist will take us out,

Because if they don’t we will cause damage, But do not let them steal you from yourself With this in mind, I’m sure you’ll manage.

Erick Buendia

the jar

By Elsa Eastwood

spring cleaning unearths a glass jar

moss-ridden and forgotten that bends light rather awkwardly from the windowsill

after it falls from hand to bin I do not think of it again

nor will I remember when I sniffling and swollen-eyed cried to miss our winter trip

or how the boy I looked past in the halls brought me back a jar of snow

gentle remnants of a white hue from some distant mountain

or how he too cried because it melted in the car before I had the chance to see it

Collage by Eliza Dryson

Mo

By Shannon Lin

On nights when sleep escaped him, Stephen enjoyed tracing the seams of his stuffed pig Mo in the dark. He felt the little pinpricks of her terry cloth fur, the pajama pills and laundry lint that dotted her body, the mats between her floppy ears from almost ten years of nuzzling. As he buried his face into her pot belly there was the smell of playroom dust and fabric softener and the scallion pancakes his dad had burnt this morning: the scent of warmth, comfort, home. Her familiar texture swept over his face as his nose followed the large scar on her stomach.

When Stephen was six, Mo’s belly had burst open. He couldn’t recall why it had happened; what he did remember was crying under the kitchen table, clutching his mom’s leg as she sewed, and crying harder when he saw the new stitches. Mo was the color of Matsusaka pork fat, of Hey Song Sarsaparilla foam, of the Play Bubble cola gum Stephen’s father bought from FamilyMart after work because he hoped the baseball player on the packaging would inspire his son to register for the Taoyuan Little League—it was a color Stephen’s mom didn’t have, so she had used white thread instead. It did not blend in as well as she’d hoped. His mom had also taken the opportunity to add more stuffing; in the years since Stephen’s first birthday, Mo had lost much of her plump piggy roundness to various washings and squashings. However, the new stuffing changed Mo’s texture considerably. As Stephen took her into his arms, he felt lumps of horrible cotton tumors that had not been there before.

A terror rose in his stomach. Inspecting her ugly white sutures and her swollen growths, he was struck with the feeling that this was Something Else wearing the skin of his beloved friend. He threw her onto the floor.

Looking back on it now, it seemed so silly. He gave the pig an apologetic pat on the head. He supposed that was the difference between being six and being almost eleven; he knew so much better now. How could he have tossed her away like that? As he pressed against the firm line of stitches now, he recalled his mother pulling him close and consoling him as he sobbed.

“I’m sorry, Stephen. I thought it would be fun for Mo and I to be twins,” his mother said.

The confusion startled him out of his crying. “What do you mean?”

“Look.” His mother lifted the hem of her shirt to reveal a pale scar. It curved like a smile under the squishy part of her belly. “I have one too.”

“Does it hurt?” he asked, pressing his fingers against it.

“No.”

“Will it open again?”

“Nope. See?” His mother squeezed the skin around it and stretched. “Here, you can try it on Mo.” She picked the pig off of the ground and dusted her off. “But only if you say sorry to her. That wasn’t very nice.”

“I’m sorry, Mo.” Stephen pinched the loose fabric on either side of the stitches and tugged gently. The seam pulled taut. It really did look like the one on his mom’s stomach. He ran a finger over the seam. “She’s not as soft here anymore.”

“That’s because she’s tougher now. When things get hurt, they grow back stronger.” His mom cupped his face. “Now she’s the strongest pig in the world! I bet none of your friends have plushies with a cool scar.”

“Is she so lumpy now because she grew big muscles? It feels really weird.”

“Oh! Actually, Mo was so brave that I gave her a lot of cotton candy to eat.” His mother gently her hands over his. “Here, I’ll show you how to massage her to help her digest all that food.”

It was true that Mo had become stronger. In the four years since, nothing had been able to tear Mo’s belly open again. Lying on the bed in the dark, Stephen kneaded Mo’s stomach like his mother had shown him. As the clumps of stuffing gradually broke apart beneath his fingers, so too did Stephen’s worries, and he sank into a deep sleep.

The following morning Stephen’s dad startled him awake. On school days like this one, it was his mom who gently woke him up, but on this particular day she had a doctor’s appointment until noon. With all of the grogginess scared out of him, Stephen got ready for school with enough time to spare for him to tuck Mo into bed.

He propped her up against the pillow, pulled the sheets up to her snout, and rested her little trotters on top of the blanket. “Take care of everything while I’m at school, okay?”

Then he was gone.

Mo lay there in the silence. This was her least favorite part of the day, but she took her job of supervising Stephen’s room very seriously. Her embroidered eyes studied the motes of dust drifting through the hot, late spring sunlight. She watched as they swirled in the leftover air currents of Stephen’s whirlwind of a morning. The particles danced before the window blinds like plankton in a primordial soup. When Stephen dragged her across the floor during playtime, she would gobble all of them up like a humpback whale and grow bigger and grayer—not that she wasn’t already quite gray.

She had lint from all of Stephen’s favorite things: his original red onesie

with two bow-tie-wearing dogs on the front; the knit blanket from his grandma that Mo had usurped as Stephen’s comfort item; the polo shirts his dad wore tucked into a pair of knee-length khaki shorts; the blue turtleneck sweater Stephen’s mom broke out when the air conditioner was too cold; the ancient La New socks his dad hadn’t replaced since graduate school; the flea market bracelet with the pair of orange jadeite fish; Stephen’s hair; his dad’s hair; his mom’s hair; every fiber of Stephen’s life had made itself a part of his beloved pig.

Stephen’s father was quite pleased his son was so taken with pigs as he took it as a chance to teach him proper saving habits with a piggy bank. He had bought him a big ceramic one with large cheeks and smile lines that resembled the Laughing Buddha. A couple years of red envelope money and loose change went into that pig without much fuss. Stephen had never dared to ask his parents to buy anything for him—why did it matter where the money was stored? It was only when he wanted to give money to his class fund to pay for air conditioning in their classrooms that he found out he had to smash the pig open to get the money back. When he couldn’t do it, his father did.

Mo remembered comforting Stephen as he gathered the pieces back together in his hands. The hot glue gun that his parents didn’t know he was too young to use burned his fingers as he tried to put the round smile back together. Strings of glue danced in the air like spiderwebs. He couldn’t figure out how much glue to use, how his mother had put Mo back together so nicely back then. When he used too little, the clay pieces broke apart again, so he settled on using too much.

The Budai-looking piggy bank was still there on the shelf, peeking out from behind Stephen’s books. Mo wished Stephen would take the piggy bank out to play sometimes, but Mo knew it still hurt him to look at the mess that was left. The piggy bank gave Mo a pained smile, that eternal smile—one that shone through the hot glue boils sprouting all along its body.

It was late afternoon now. The sub-tropical sun baked the room when he was at school; it reminded her of laundry days, when she sat on the white folding rack on the balcony and the sun evaporated all the water away. She imagined the feeling of her stuffing slowly expanding under the blazing light was how a loaf of bread felt in the oven.

As the heat grew almost unbearable, the jingle of keys and the turning of locks echoed through the house.

They were home.

Mo counted the sets of footsteps as they reached her pink, felt ears. One, and two, and—no, only two. There was the scrtttttch of velcro fasteners and the thud of leather business loafers, the pitter-patter of little bare feet

speeding up the granite stairs, and the boyish voice she knew so well hollering, “I’m back!”

There was no reply.

The air swam thick with a question that made Mo’s whiskers curl. Her cotton stuffing felt heavy and knotted. In the hours Stephen was gone, Mo had reveled in the stillness of the room, but she realized too late how quiet it had become.

“Where’s Mom?”

Mo heard a shuffle downstairs.

She heard the leather sofa creak under the weight of Stephen’s father. She heard the heavy rumble of his voice. The way it tripped over itself. The way it broke.

She heard fear. It stumbled. It wavered. It flitted around the house, bouncing off closed doors and windows. Then, it began to rise in pitch, higher, and higher, and higher, and higher; it yanked at her ears and pulled so tight that Mo felt her threads begin to snap at the sound.

Stephen was screaming.

The strings of his throat shrieked under the grind of a child’s unforgiving bow, the grief scouring his voice raw. Stephen threw himself up the stairs, up past his parents’ room, up past his father’s study, up until the last polished granite landing slipped beneath him. Mo saw his head flash into view as it crashed into the banister. The wood rattled to the sound of another splitting shriek.

Oh, how she wanted to rush to him! She bade her cotton core to sit upright, she willed her limp legs to move, move, move! But all she could do was wait as she always had, tucked in as snugly as he had left her that morning, until finally, Stephen stumbled into the room and plunged his face into her patchwork belly. He was here.

The terrible knots in her stuffing broke apart under his weight. Her fabric grew stiff where the blood from the cut on his forehead stained her fur. His hands grasped at her, wringing the grief out of each other. He released sob after sob into her belly. She quietly absorbed it all. Her belly swelled with tears and blood and pain and love until it felt she might burst—yet the smile-shaped seam held taut, never to be resewn again.

Montana Has Eluded Me

By Ben Gertner

as the wheel motions eastward

I find it harder to believe in the union thread of roads the turns and gasoline

the billboards of the pious which once sent us into cackle have since lost their luster their connection home is too difficult to figure in their stead the gristle of sky the gray empty has grinded me to my seat

the throb of each day has churned my brain to butter now motions eastward are but a distant pinpoint

Eden Mae Richman and Valentina Arnold

COBAN

By Gemmarosa Ryan

The labels on the cabinets read as follows:

“Empty”

“Empty”

“Coats”

“Tape”

“4x4 Gauze”

“Alcohol wipes”

“Kleenex”

“Kidney Trays”

“Pillow Cases”

“Misc. Bandages”

“Coban”

Coban?

CO-BAN?

What could that be?

Pinky promises between toddlers

We will never ever have another best friend! Promise? Promise.

Cuban?

With a typo?

Cigars confiscated from the chronic smoker getting chemo in the room over a muted voice calling to the nurses.

CanI–geta—cupofcoffeey?

A Tylenol for the particularly unfortunate.

Coban. A Tylenol for the particularly unfortunate. For those who have to discuss alternativepossibilities adifferenttreatmentplan awaytomoveforward.

Coban. I had to ask the nurse my curiosity eating me alive like the bacteria in my blood. A girl obsessed with consumption, of having her cup too full.

Coban. A beige bandage, ridged and pruned like the skin of my ward-mates. Real tree camouflage For those who hunt the beast of their health.

By Bennett Gottesman

Please1 believe2 me3 when4 I5 say6 that7 I8 love9 you10 so11.12

1 A pleasantry used as an intensifier. It implies a yearning sense. This is not a command or even a suggestion. It implies begging. The power is placed in the hands of whomever the statement is for.

2 A verb. An action that the speaker would like the recipient to engage in. Believing stems from different sources. Is this belief meant to be faith, the least exact and most powerful possibility? Is an epistemological proof required? Why should the recipient believe the speaker? An answer to this last question is sadly missing. Should the recipient be suspicious? There are many possible ways to prove that the speaker may be believed. Does our speaker exist? Maybe not, but they certainly have a being. That phenomenon is apparent. But there is another phenomenon that the recipient may perceive. The speaker is smiling but slightly nervous. Their words are delivered softly. Their eyes are perhaps even softer. But maybe the recipient perceives something else. Maybe they notice a smirk.

3 A direct object. This is the first mention of our speaker by our speaker. They give minimal detail. It seems that they are. It has been ascertained that they most likely have a being of some sort. Also detectable is their self-awareness. Is this a specific figure? Is the statement general? Is the speaker the same as the author? Is the author the same person writing these notes? In such a case, doubt would be cast on the previous word (believe). The speaker wants to be believed. It is known that they’re begging for this. Does their use of a singular direct object exclude all but them? Would they want the recipient to believe anyone else?

4 An adverb. This is our first reference to temporality. The speaker wants to be believed for a particular space of time. Do they want to be believed for an instant, forever, or something in between? Have they even thought of this? If the speaker is the author then this would imply poor planning. They want to be believed, yes. That’s where I was. Self-referential statements must be avoided in these notes. The speaker begs to be believed and it’s not even for some infinite space of time. It’s just for a moment when, well I’ll get there. The author of the notes must get their shit together. The speaker certainly must have a being. They must be smiling. They must be genuine and believable. No, they mustn’t. I

must quit my assumptions.

5 A subject. The speaker believes that they are. If they are then they must be engaged in some sort of activity even if it’s simply being. What if the writer of the sentence is not the speaker but the recipient? Is their work a record or something they wish for? If they saw softened eyes could they have felt the sentence but not heard it? Can one feel words that aren’t there? Can I read them in the speaker’s eyes? Can the recipient read them in the speaker’s eyes? I’ve gone off-topic again. “I”. A very short word. Its specificity does seem to matter. Who wants anything real from anyone? It may not be from a determined someone. By this, I mean that it doesn’t have to be from John across the street or Olivia on the corner. It has to be from someone specific. A specific “I”. It doesn’t matter who that specific person is. “I” is truly a remarkable word. Such a minuscule signifier that signifies all we really know.

6 A verb. The speaker is speaking about speaking. And the writer is writing about the speaker speaking about speaking. And the writer of the notes is writing about the writer writing about the speaker speaking about speaking. Are all writers characters? Do we put ourselves into everything we do? I don’t see how we couldn’t. Is all of this about me? Could it really be me? Or just a representation of myself. When we speak to someone is it for them or just an idea of them? Is the speaker really speaking to the recipient? Maybe their eyes melt for someone else. Maybe they smirk for the recipient but leave the rest for some other. Some other someone, something. Who knows?

7 An unnecessary helping word. The speaker doesn’t need this word. It’s pointless filler. Read the sentence out loud with and without it. If the word is unnecessary then my note should follow suit. It’s pathetic, isn’t it? This was supposed to be serious, even authoritative. One who writes such notes shouldn’t reveal themself. I give up, at least on that. I can’t hide anymore. I can fail in my diction. It’s my purpose that matters. A word is a sign. So is a sentence. So is a gesture or look. I’ve set out to explain a sign. By taking every piece of a signifier I might find what is signified. I might find something in these words. Something worth saying. Something worth feeling, maybe even believing.

8 A subject. The only repeated word. That’s what it’s all about. It’s all about “ego.” It’s all about the speaker who is here to beg. I wonder if they’re telling the truth. I said I wanted to find something in these words. When they com-

posed the sentence did they not yet know what it meant? Did they not know who was behind it? I know a lot of things and I’ve written them down. I know Latin, a pinch of philosophy, a speck of linguistics, too. But for what? What do I know about any of these words let alone what they mean? I’ve learned far and wide and with every new thing I think I’ll understand more. But I can’t begin to fathom the speaker and recipient. I can’t comprehend the “and” between them. I don’t know what connects them. Why beg? Why say anything? Why believe anything said? For who? For what? For what of whom?

9 A verb.

10 An indirect object. I’ll admit that I know nothing now. I am not loving or be ing loved. I tried to find something in this sentence. I’ve dug as deep into it as I can muster. I’ve failed. And so…

11 An intensifier. The “so” implies “so much” (signifier) and so much (signified). There’s more in this “so” than me or you could ever find. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s all just empty. And so…

So I could keep writing more and more and tell myself I’m getting closer to the truth. I could stop and tell myself to let the words stand on their own. I want ed to explain and to discover. I found that it wasn’t enough so I went deeper. I went deeper and found a gorgeous complexity. But this failed and fell away before some other truth. And so the questions piled up, but none of them meant as much as what could have been on some nonexistent person’s face or maybe right behind their eyes. I tried to escape this and erase myself but failed again. I erased myself to find something new and beautiful. I looked for love because I was told that’s all I needed. I searched for it between syllables and a thousand interpretations. I didn’t find it. So here I am having gained nothing but myself; knowing more than I did 10 words ago but never enough.

12 A sentence. Nonsense maybe. An attempt and a failure. The sentence is something. Please believe me when I say that I have no idea.

Ana Ziebarth

Mirr/or

By Hyacinth Scheinfeld

thin lines of blood scribble, scribble blood of lines, thin traverse my abdomen, abandon my traverse weathered muscles muscles weathered; bend through deflection deflection through bind, (distorted reflection) reflection distorted burn holes in i’m holes. burn, discarded divots of my skin skin me of divots discarded resurrect magic in in magic, resurrect my eye, treasure treasure— eye my scars that haven’t yet appeared appears yet doesn’t, that scars. the splatter of my iris stains stain the spatter of my iris a soft white tank top— top sank, white, soft, thick eyelashes crumple against angst crumples eyelashes, thick rotting and watermarked- framed glasses glasses frames, watermarked and rotting my kneecaps skew sideways slide away; strewn kneecaps

keratin-plastered fingertips fingertips, plastered keratin down the sides of my forearm forwarns my side, the drowned the spider web of cracks cracks of webbed spider, the etched into the flesh of my right rib cage caged rib right of my flesh, into the etched,

shards of glass steep into into steep, glass of shards the creases of my knuckles knuckles me of creases, the i lick the blood off my lips, lips of my blood that lick me remember when i broke a mirror the first time time fists the mirror, a broke me when i remember —third grade— —grade three— i cried on the floor of my parents bedroom morbid parents floor me, i cried on . .... because my brother told me i told my brother because .......

(i)t (i)t ........... was bad luck: was bad luck:........ i curl my hand into a fist fist into my hand a curl, and raise it above my head heed me, above it rise and..

Madeleine Metzger

Matthew 22:39

By Vansh Kapoor

He takes the crucifix from above the bed and places it on the desk, Myparentsknow,Ipromise. A sea of unreciprocated simplicities,

Hold me Sure,

6’ 2” by frame but a few inches smaller in his sister’s bedroom, We don’t say much in the morning.

Amanda Swartz

Cruel Summer

By Abby Glassman

On my back, Mike’s lips look even more chapped and flakey than they did when I was right-side up. They cracked violently at the ends. I averted my eyes, staring straight into the overhead light, bright white like a blistering sun, but I couldn’t stop thinking about his lips. I almost offered him my Homeoplasmine –nipple cream that’s better than chapstick – but resisted the urge. He asked me what music I wanted to listen to while he strapped me into the flatbed of the MRI and I said, “Taylor Swift?”

Do you think Mike knew I was in my Reputation era? That if I had black lipstick I’d wear it? Not because I think it would go nice with my outfit, but because I’m sort of a rebel these days. Or at least, I’m trying to be, now I can’t move like I used to.

I’ve never run as far as I did on the last day of August. I could’ve run farther but my heel hit the pavement and a cruel sensation coursed through my foot and lodged itself there like a stubborn nail. On that same day, I chopped most of my hair off and reclaimed the French bob.

In the same way, I never even thought about getting another ear piercing until I found myself at Claire’s the weekend that I left school to get the MRI to see what was wrong with the foot. I hadn’t wanted to be home, but I was there and needed something to take the edge off. I got the piercing and forgot you can’t wear metal in an MRI but I wasn’t allowed to take the stud out for six months, per the instructions of the ear-piercing guy.

Mike told me the chances that I’d get sucked into the MRI were only slim. He slipped cartoonish headphones over my ears and then disappeared into the abyss. I hated the silence, but maybe that was just because I was anticipating the sound. I wondered what song he’d play first. Hopefully “Cruel Summer.”

I had ample time for reflection while Mike decided which of Taylor’s songs to play first. Didn’t he know I was sick of waiting games? In the last few months, I had done enough thinking, worrying about my foot’s fate. The Redditors told me that I had foot cancer and it was probably karma for being a bad friend to somebody at some point.

One of the worst things about the injury has been the waiting. And the cure? “Patience.” I find ways to amuse myself. I impulsively bought an overpriced ballerina coloring book at Drug Mart the weekend I was home, and now it sits untouched in the living room, stacked between Spot It and Codenames.

Somewhere along my middle school science career, I learned about surface tension. We squeezed droplets of water onto pennies and they formed wobbly domes. Whenever I find myself holding back tears, I picture my eyes as pennies, domes on the brink of spilling over.

Earlier that weekend, before the MRI, I’d gone to the Eras Tour Movie with my mom and dad. A sea of blonde wigs flooded the theater atop the heads of pre-pubescent fans. Most of the tiny fans sported gold shimmery skirts. A petite hand reached across my dad’s lap and proffered a teal 1989 bracelet. I gently accepted it from her palm, securing it around my wrist after receiving a nod of approval from her.

Taylor Swift does it like no one else because every song feels hand-crafted for the listener. I watched the Eras tour on a big screen in a reclined chair with popcorn and, at the same time, watched myself at six and eight and twelve and sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and twenty-one, crying in front of my mirror, or jumping on the bed, or hanging off it to the same lyrics.

I held wobbly domes in my eyes as soon as “Cruel Summer” came on, and tried hard not to let them spill over. I missed that girl because I’m not the same as I was.

Mike’s Pandora was probably broken, so I never got the release of a “Cruel Summer” and there were still five minutes left until I’d be free from the MRI, so I cried to break the silence. And it felt good to let go.

But why should it not be complicated?

By Mia Alexander

All brilliant men are horrible. I am not afforded this anger–I sing and then I sob.

The Hasidic hipster is 5’4 and angry about it. He says he’s a set of unresolved tensions: signifier lacking sign.

Sometimes we’ll sit in the grass outside his window. I’ll absentmindedly scribble poems on the backs of gum wrappers and he’ll talk about his screenplay.

Yesterday we watched a foreign film. I whispered in his ear–Iamsotiredofvaguelyoptimisticsapphicnarratives. He laughed and planted a kiss on the crook of my neck.

He thinks I’m smart. His voice was sleep thick when he picked up my bra and told me to Leave.

Exhaustion

By Kai Paik

a fine selection of monkeys were toiling away in their 5x5x5 cubicles bringing about the end of the world

marmosets at typewriters burnished-brassed & nacre-inlaid, errant silver hairs caught between Ws and Qs; howlers on IBM Selectrics drumming on keyboards, an odd-meter machinist chorus, thumbs striking spacebars and letterkeys striking paper and digits striking digits; a lone, frenetic chimp prying apart an antique’s tarnished typebars, clawing at the ribbon spool, carriage-lever dangling, desecrating the apparatus with all the joy of an ape who has happened upon a typewriter; the monkeys typed the monkeys were typing the monkeys had been — Something New!

Identified — plucked from the desk of the crazed, exalted howler — high on creation, narcotic grin — shaking in the sublime epiphany of a unique New composition within its most recent 421,260 characters — oh God, poor monkey, give it a bonus —

Scrutinized — judged against the sanctified expanse of existing phrases and words and Things — infinitesimally different, but significantly so — at least 0.001% — tell the higher-ups —

Peer-reviewed — fact-checked — each nonsense syllable sent through ciphers, every interpretation analyzed and criticized — tested in three clinical trials —

Filed — delivered to archival in a prim manila folder — shelved with all five million unique compositions beginning with ed9;;23}Vh — processed in full — clean death.

It was hardly a glimpse of a memory of a past Before typewriters had been scrapped for spare lock-shift levers And monkeys laid off in the thousands Now who still believed? All that could be written had been written and only scraps remained (Caesar, completed many times over, forward and backward) imagination, regressed to brute-force; creativity, to call-numbers the monkeys had long ago lost all feeling in their legs; to leave them to type was a mercy

Imogen Shearmur

Collage by Jane Weitz

An Infestation of Spirits

By Lewis Woloch

Had there been soap in the men’s lavatory, then surely what proceeded would have been vanquished or even lessened in both its size and strength. Yet the sheer lack of soap was, in fact, the very detail that set in motion the disappearance of the very spirits that, as of merely two hours before, had taken stock nestled right up against my crinkly brain and made a home for themselves. But before I explain all that proceeded following the severe drought of soap in the exact location where I most dutifully desired it, I must explain the essence of the spirits, and the origins of the spirits, and why it was so necessary that these chaotic, malevolent spirits exit my poor brain.

Early in the morning of that same, fateful day, waking up slightly dehydrated and ever-so-more than slightly lacking in sleep from the night prior, I found myself in the midst of a crossroads, and within these crossroads, I was again amongst sheets that I couldn’t exactly call my own. But what decision did I make at this paramount point of contention, at this substantive, day-altering positionality in time… did I exit the premises and rid my unabashedly smooth brain of the already incoming spirits, did I rest my weary head on the pillows that did not belong to me and count sheep? No, I chose neither, choosing instead to consume CAFFEINE, choosing to accelerate the movement of the spirits and choosing to set my day on the path upon which the ultimate, frightful event would shake the floors and stir up the great thinking minds even more than had the construction of the glorious old library itself.

The CAFFEINE that was now swiveling and spiraling throughout the crinkles and folds of my chronically un-smooth brain had also found its way down to my rectal area, and was tracing a fine line through these wild parts until it had amassed enough mass to send me scrambling to the lavatory, a timing so incredibly unfortunate since I had just been handed a scrumptious looking platter of gooey eggs and fried potatoes and crispy onions and sausage and spinach and bread. But I have no control over any of my body parts, never mind my bowels, and so I scampered along the slick hardwood towards the lavatory, setting in motion yet another series of events that would place me once again on the sheer white porcelain later that day, and be the very inducement of the fit that would quite permanently put me over the edge (or possibly just the opposite). Thus, as I sat, albeit marvelously, on said porcelain, there were many spirits exiting my body yet even more entering at the same time, so that the former had negated the latter to a truly severe point, and I emerged from the poor lavatory feeling

neither satisfied nor dissatisfied, just perpetually confused.

The confusion rambled along its undefined path, morphing into what could only be described as despair as I stepped onto the large patch of green, artificial grass, moving in such a way to play my beloved game that the spirit invaders who were now seeking refuge in my brain could potentially have been displaced, but nevertheless maintained their hold due to the chants that were leveled at me.

“Hey 99, show us that ass!” “Run 99, Run, go get the fucking ball” “Bend overrrrr, 99!”

By the time I was back in our vehicle, safe and sound, (although it is better said that the hecklers themselves were more safe and sound now being removed from my unruly presence, as I had further taunted them by removing my garments and blowing kisses from various nether regions of my body) the effects of CAFFEINE had slowed from their previously disjointed journey around the pitch. The dull roar that penetrated my crinkly, oh-ever-so-crinkly folds was allowing the spirits to settle, while simultaneously preparing me for their ultimate expulsion, one that would only occur after the CAFFEINE made its final exit through my cavity’s hole and the lavatory would fail to meet the very lowliest of my many noble needs.

The very reason I was in the lavatory without a drop of soap to my name, and the reason I needed such a large amount of soap to cleanse myself is due to the laugh that emerged from my body just as I was beginning to relieve myself at the stand-up urinal, four hours removed from the big game. Member in hand, I was surprised by the joke of a classmate standing a few meters away, and fell victim to a massive gastric jolt that began near my stomach, spurted up out of my mouth in the form of a hyena-like laugh, and then shimmied right back down to the cavity that had been in severe overuse for the entirety of that day. The poor cavity did the only thing it knew how to do, which was expelling whatever air was present inside of it and maybe a few too many particles as well, sending me at once with my pants in hand diving into a stall and examining the damage that had been done. I emerged unscathed a mere 15 minutes later, but the real catastrophe had clearly occurred unbeknownst to me, as I was now devoid of a manner in which to cleanse my very used and unwashed hands.

So thus ensued the episode, following the near-overdose of CAFFEINE that morning, the slight debacle in the lavatory created by my overactive, nowhere-near-smooth brain infested with the spirits that had been created by

CAFFEINE, the resulting pandemonium on the green football pitch, the burst of laughter that had warmed my pants, the unfortunate journey in and out of the stall, and finally, after all this, after every topsy-turvy event of my day that ultimately all stemmed from the introduction and proliferation of spirits in my head, there was the most important one of them all.

I washed my hands in the ladies’ room.

And this action itself created such a fervent and unstoppable bout of wild, cackling laughter from deep within me that I had to sprint up and down the aisles of the stacked section of our old, glorious library, spirits dripping left and right from my nose and mouth and ears and most certainly disturbing anyone within a 20-meter radius. I guess I could moan and repent and wish there had just been soap in that god-forsaken lavatory, but to be honest, I am much happier with the spirits out of my head and the crinkles in my brain finally eliminated, so I can once again become smooth-brained and enjoy all of the blissful ignorance that this wonderful condition has to offer.

DPM

By Sophia Meloni

As is so often the case for the children of parents who participate in the complex labyrinth of the “family friend” social economy, it is the Fourth of July, I am 19, and I am watching the son of a bitcoin billionaire rail lines behind the cotton candy booth at an all-ages Fourth of July party. His mother is partial to themed events and his father is partial to expensive, big-ticket whims, so they throw the biannual holiday blowout in the name of the Coney Island Mermaid parade complete with rides, games, jugglers, clowns, fried food, and the sinister American opportunism of a hired contortionist putting the moves on my family friend: 5’6 heir to the whole extravaganza. The honorary invitee, of course, is the king of Coney Island, himself, the crown jewel of the entire ordeal: Joey Chestnut, reining champion of the Nathan’s hot dog eating contest. I know this, because, as is so often the case for people with Republican cousins, I have reluctantly metabolized their patriotic sensibilities. My cousins are what they are and they feel how they feel and though they may be medically inarticulate, they know that they are closest to their country sitting in front of the flat screen watching JC drench the bun and take the dog down whole. Lucky for them, this spectacle is universally ineffable. This year is Joey’s best, clocking in at a record 8.2dpm.[1] This, I tell to my family friend but, as is so often the case for children of Bitcoin billionaires, his name is Jake, he’s two months out of Princeton, and he is not listening as he is devoting most of his energy to half-heartedly playing the bit of the panicked post-grad in the lull between graduation and when the trust fund kicks in.

As the eldest son, he’s intent on making a name for himself in the industry that had brought his father an East Hamptons Estate, a company jet, and half a dozen beachfront investment properties around the globe, in places that were described as “paradise” with the sort of inappropriate exuberance by people that did not live there. The wave had crested on Bitcoin, and he needed to break out on his own with something young, fresh, and authentic to him. For weeks, a group of family friends worked tirelessly in a Tribeca office while Jake sat in the big comfy chair at the head of the boardroom and helmed the development of “Pu$$y Coin: a currency that is universal and immeasurable in demand”. “It’s all about the wordplay; what the name symbolizes”. This he explains to me as the dance floor starts to thin, and the tequila turns sentimental. He does not know what symbolism is, but I do not have the heart to tell him.

[1] Unit of measurement: ‘dogs per minute

Somewhere in the gray area between me asking me how he is and him explaining the economy to me, he sweeps the champagne off the bar and looks back at me with a performative disaffect as he signals to the beach. “Let’s get out of here.” Looking out at the ocean, with a champagne bottle dangling precariously from his indifferent wrist, he takes my hand in his petite, uncalloused, palm, and issues a deep sigh.

On the slight chance that nepotism outranks divine intervention, and he makes his big break on the crypto main stage, I look at him with a coquettish twinkle in my eye that says “I believe in you” and playfully insist that crypto wasn’t real money. Fed up with my girlish idiocy, he transfers me 1,000,000 in Pu$$y coin which, come August, I would exchange for 26 USD when the crypto market was at its peak. He looks wistfully into the distance with that indulgent, self-afflicted anguish that is so distinctly characteristic of a man standing at the edge of a large body of water, or at the brink of a precipice that they have exerted minimal effort to reach. Of a man reconciling self and the sublime. Of a man reckoning with things.

Gesturing back to the glow of the imported carnival, he wipes the champagne dribble from his chin and looks at me, with complete earnest as I listen, intently, with wide, glistening eyes that await his biannual confession to “leave it all behind.” As the night starts to bloat and Wall Streets’ finest begin falling face-first into hot tubs and coffee tables, he tells me that despite what everyone thinks, his greatest fantasy is to change his name and become a bartender in some remote corner of the world. He tells me that despite what I may think, I’m “actually really pretty.” The neon light of the retractable Ferris wheel illuminates his prethinning hair like a halo as he leans in to kiss me.

In my periphery, I see Joey Chestnut being whisked away in a flurry of groupies and circus performers, I shout after him– “Joey, Joey, what’s the secret to your success?” The daze is in his eyes as he has me beat by two dozen tequila sodas or so.

As Joey takes a breath to consider the question, Jake throws up into his hands. He drops the bottle. The glass shatters on my foot.

Amidst the chaos, Joey looks at me with prophetic clarity and startling poignancy, and strings together a single coherent sentence to express the only thing that he knows to be unequivocally true.

Anatomy of a Hoarder

By Sylvia Maxwell

Housing Works

Location: 306 Columbus Ave

Date: June 25, 2022

Donation Report from the family of Arlene S. Goldhoff

I. The rug she bought with Rena that had cocooned the concave floor nobody danced on. Besides, perhaps, the Russian dolls.

II. Thirty ShopRite coupons offering 20% off of 10 cans of Heinz baked beans

III. Probably no cans of Heinz baked beans

IV. Nine mugs. They all said “World’s Best Mother.” She never had any children.

V. Every ticket from every plane, train, and bus Arlene ever took. This may seem impossible, but her agoraphobia held a steady cap on the number.

VI. A polka dot bag of used fake nails with extra glue.

VII. Christmas cards, birthday cards, graduation cards, get well cards, anniversary cards…some filled out, most laying empty in the plastic sleeve.

VIII. A lot of Ina Garten and Melissa Stewart. Even more tupperware. The latter lacking matching lids.

IX. Dust bunnies and dog shit

X. One Pointe shoe and two game clues.

XI.

Note: By now, it can be presumed, they have sunk too deep into Arlene’s things that the catalog could not be concluded.

Cathedrals to Capital

By Noa Koffman-Adsit

The sun will glide across golden domes, alight on spires and linger on towers, dance lazily atop the waves before you.

The river will be perfectly rippled, waves lulling, drifting, and the sky will be burnt and golden, light blooming out of God-shaped clouds.

Cathedrals will catch your gaze, hold it, and out of focus, the city will sprawl infinite.

Winding staircases and rooftop capers will fill your days, drink and grapes and luxury, the slender wind keeping the space between the sheets and your bodies just cool enough in Capital.

The river rapture runs into this place, but not out. It is at once the journey and the destination; it is where you should have begun and it is where you will end.

Your ending is its beginning and as such it will remain in perpetuity, for you, for yours, for ours.

Midas

By Abigail Grauer

I would have loved you in a darkened shack, freezing in the winter and boiling in the summer heat. I would have accepted a wedding band of fraying string from your only coat and tied it around my finger with pride, But you were king. Great and powerful and my own personal ruination. You reached for your crown most days, before you kissed me hello you would still kiss me, on good days, and I smiled like madness growing through the sidewalk. You screamed, the first time your bare foot touched the damp grass and it turned solid gold beneath you. Your smile lit the courtyard, reflecting sunlight from the saliva between your teeth.

I missed the smell of the garden. The wet earth after a rain, alive with wriggling worms, the bees drifting lazily between your favorite flowers, daisies and hydrangeas I planted for you last spring.

I would reach for you in darkness, my hope quietly rusting in the corner, and you would hold my hand for a moment, and squeeze just this side of painful. You stretched out your arms like a child, thick fingers grabbing at the world to touch, to hold, to own, to gild.

Each apple in my trees bloomed from beautiful blood red to a sickly pale yellow beneath your touch. You smiled and walked with me through the hallways of our youth. You shouted your thanks heavenward, exalting whatever g-d had blessed you so. You said nothing to the earth whose flowering children you changed to dull statues.

I suppose you thought she ought to be thanking you.

I worshipped each night the idea of the life you promised me, eating the scraps of your table. Straining each hour to hear the whispers of your strange gospel.

The altars ran dry while you prayed each morning to a gilded bedroom mirror, prayed each night to the treasure lighting your halls, reflecting your crown in their shine polished each day with cloth run ragged.

I would like to have cooked for you, made a simple meal for us to eat together. You could tell me about your day at work and I could tell you about mine and you could pretend to love me and I would smile.

You sat that night at a table of solid gold, grains of wood now rivers of rock. Each gilded plate held steaming dishes of meat and cheese and sauce and greens and each heavy goblet brimmed with sickley sweetened wine. How beautiful it was, to gaze upon a table finally fit for a king of your power. But as you lifted that heavy fork to your lips, it too began to gleam: beautiful glittering inedible.

Your teeth chipped on hardened potatoes, seasoned with the finest spices. Your tongue scratched raw from fresh bread, baked only that morning. Your blood mixed with each bite in your mouth, dripping smooth metallic ichor down the sides of your chin That night, you finally ran to me, coming home, I hoped, and if I could, I would have opened my arms wide to welcome you. But already, you had rebuilt my skin and hair and teeth and bones, pulled at the fractured edges of my soft body and shoved in that shining crown you loved so dearly. You called me beautiful then. But I was no longer me.

Georgia Gerber

In Excess of Grief

By R

A Letter to Wadea Al Fayoume

I remember when I first saw

A picture of you

Fingers cocked against your blue Happy birthday hat

Your squishy baby cheeks and big, brown eyes

Looking up into the camera

I saw a sweet child

A curious child

I saw myself,

And my little brother and sister in you

I saw your softness, your humanity.

I still see it, in all its palpable, Vulnerability

I bear witness to it, I testify to it

Even though until a few weeks ago I never knew your name.

I know you cried when you died

Even if at six years old

You likely didn’t know What it means to pass away,

What it means to be stabbed, what it means to bleed.

I know you were scared when you bled out

From twenty-six stab wounds across your small chest

One after another, still alive

In a pool of your lifeblood

I know you wanted your mother when you died

As she too was stabbed and choked

But you couldn’t see her or hear her

Over the sound of your own blood rushing from your veins

Your own life slipping away

I know you were confused when you died

Not used to this feeling of being breathless

On your way to being lifeless

Not sure where all that red was coming from

Soaking your plaid T-shirt

The wooden floors

Your skin, and your blue happy birthday hat

And me.

On October 14th, 2023

You, Wadea Al Fayoume

You died.

I know I never knew you

Or your mother’s kind face lighting up whenever she saw you, or your favorite food

Or your favorite video game

Or what your laugh sounded like

I’ll never know how you felt

When you died.

But know that you didn’t deserve what happened to you

No matter what anyone says

To diminish you, and the life

You deserve to still be living.

I will never forget you, you will always be with me.

Little martyr, little bird in the sky

Flying far and free, may you rest in peace.

Gaza’s Rot

Before us,

They lie rotting,

The rotting flesh sickening my nose, Uneasy and unwieldy.

Flowers will someday grow from Their bones, the wind whispers

Life will crawl out of the Shed skin of death

But it is hard to believe that Here, surrounded by the excess of decay, by the excess of rot.

The Canvas I was watching the news again today

After seeing women with covered hair and empty eyes

Children grasping for pieces of themselves amongst the rubble

Old men who have little left of them that doesn’t seem tired of life

The walls are painted crimson And the floors and my lips-

I feel like I can taste the violence in the pigmentBut it’s not blood.

It doesn’t taste right on my tongue, Not iron, not sharp, not metallic-it’s paint.

The paint was all over It seemed to cover everything in its sticky embrace.

Except for my canvas, a single woman

A single child, a single old man lying limp and devoid of color -Snow-white.

I try to make them bright and colorful again, Alive again.

But the paint is no replacement For the blood that was once in their veins.