Journal Entry of Girl Running From / Looking for Home

December 2nd, 2022

I am tired of feeling like there is too much to write down, and I’ve already missed something. That I’m no longer a good writer, and that whenever I pick up a pen —like now—it must be to prove myself.

I am still thinking about that poem that slipped away from me while I was drugged up on prescribed codeine cough syrup, shadows shifting into spiraling tentacles in my dark room, looming from wall to wall. I tossed and turned, thinking, wow, I might be sweating to death and feeling like shit, but now I’ve finally done it. For the first time in forever: a raw, honest, and brilliant poem. Like my fever and plans to catch up over the past few weeks, it slipped away without fanfare as my drowsy thoughts spun away into more darkness.

Aside from sickness and an existential crisis, winter break is passing faster now—except for when I spend eight hours in a cubicle staring at a fabric wall divider with a pasted smile, working in an office to pass the time. It rained today, reminding me of home. A home, a place that isn’t here? This isn’t home anymore. I wanted to go for a walk and play in the slightly damp California we don’t see often, where almost everyone stays inside, with empty streets beckoning.

By Brooke Nind

It was so nice to be at school and forget about the loneliness I’d always experienced here. I come with new lonelinesses now, crashing into the old.

Brooke Nind is a first-year student at Dartmouth College, originally from Southern California. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards and the UK Poetry Society’s Young Poets Network. When she isn’t reading or writing, you can find Brooke stressing over the news, trying new Mexican food places to find the best burrito, or listening to Taylor Swift on repeat.

I cuss a bit too much now. I laugh loudly and often until my stomach hurts, a benevolent pain bleeding from the sides into the center. I tell people the truth about things that make me uncomfortable— my dad and I don’t speak much and yes, I sweat more than usual, especially when I’m anxious. I even eat foods I’m unsure of. I do things alone without even thinking about it, and it feels good—sometimes.

Here I am, back in a box, wondering if the last couple of months were just a fever dream, wondering if everything has to change again. I simply need to keep writing through it without worrying about being perfect.

I’m going to sleep now that the rain has stopped drumming on the roof.

Stella Liu is a student studying in Hong Kong who is passionate about street film photography and exploring the city where she lives in. When she is not kicking footballs on the pitch, she is avidly listening to rap and RnB or catching up on politics, or eating at the newest hip restaurant. Born in the US, she identifies with the multiculturalness of Hong Kong and has a background in Spanish from her parents who lived in South America.

Growing Big

I want to grow from each of my nerves, my roots And every drop of my blood.

I want to grow so big I don’t appear small. I want to grow so badly, till I am big enough to outgrow The fatal walls of my parent’s house, until I don’t fit in anymore.

And then, I will move out staging an act of ever longed Liberty. Venturing into a city casted with city lights Gleaming of fluorescent warmth, unlike the gloominess Of flickers that remain here, synthesising a home I know I will certainly fit into no matter it’s size, Unlike the house that has almost suffocated my breaths Of patience,

Where every season wouldn’t be hued sombre On my grieving skin, where every day wouldn’t feel like A fight to survive in the ruins of an aftermath, Where I could have my untameable heart discovered through Endless wilderness and not squeezed in supposed warm, Soulless hands

And can go fishing, trekking, riding bi-cycles with perfect strangers, Dissect coffee over random dates, get wasted with wine When solitude surrounds my shadow with overwhelming ecstasy Simply just gaze at the silver light perched on my rooftop, Go running in the vast meadows that call out my name divinely, Have my hands and my heart softly healed and my heart Surrendered to the newfound tranquillity

By Subhashree

Where I won’t have to wake up every passing day

To find hatred collected in me, disguised rage

Where I won’t have to wake up with my frozen dreams Crawling on my numb palms,

Where I can have a cat rested on my lap

Where I can love freely and be loved without the consequences. Of constraints.

Subhashree is currently an eighteen year old literature student from Bhubaneswar, Odisha, India. She admires Sylvia Plath. And considers herself as a hopeless romantic, finds peace in coffee and books just like any other hopeless romantic. She has previously been published in orange peel mag, The Black Sheep and Livewire as well.