Poetry

Graffiti on the Berlin Wall – Alexandra Mayer

Another day passes outside the window of a plane
I cross dusk with 170 strangers who hold each other’s hands or thighs when the clouds quiver.

And I can’t stop thinking about your fingers running through my hair

or the way your eyes knocked into me that July.

You made me feel like feeling itself was cracking from my chest

and hurtling across the universe,

becoming every iron, nitrogen, oxygen, n’ sulfur soul that lost the sunset to the sunrise

in thoughts of “I want you”

Because your lips burn cosmic explosions into my skin:

a creation story.

Now, heads drape over the mountains

like the twinkle lights you hung out on the patio for Christmas–

You tried to play Claire de Lune on your harmonica

and remember that you loved me.

But you left 8 months later

on a Tuesday.

7:53 p.m.

The pool lights stained your words teal

and smeared my eyeliner into a glimmering sort of heavy.

You said “late summer’s nostalgic,”

noticed the fireflies had all gone,

and I could hear crickets whimper to the sun,

“don’t go.”

And I never wanted another falling moon or set of sandpaper hands to hang onto.

You said I felt frail

like a dandelion you were keeping

from the wind.

And then you just let go.

That night, I woke up laughing,

as 1,000 tiny suns sprouted from my lips,

already dreaming of drifting.

Crossing through purple skies

like telephone wires

rushing to the seaside.

Paris stole my lipstick.

smeared it across cheeks

and hostel sheets and wine glasses, Merlot,

turned my teeth violet and my heart

a violent sort

of love you,

maddened by the beauty of it all.

Like I could chase train tracks

into the self I wanted

into Budapest, or Berlin.

A decrepit sort of art,

like you could tear

my heart into dusty fallen parts

and I’d just become more,

and faces and feet would flood through me, paint

bucket lists on my thighs and think of freedom.
I was never meant to be kept from the wind.

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Essay, Flash Fiction, Prose

A Simple Thought – Aksel Taylan

We spend a lot of time in our short lives thinking about the long term. What’s going to happen to me in ten years? Fifteen? Thirty, even? In severe cases, we let this presumptuous worries diversely affect our everyday actions and choices. This principle has a number of glaring flaws, but the main one to focus on is that the future hasn’t happened yet. You are writing your own novel; you are the only one with a pen. In other words, it is fully within your capabilities to control most of what happens in your life. However, we fail to understand that not all of it can be controlled. People get in car accidents. People get deathly ill. People are in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Why, then, should you let these worries take hold of how you express yourself if we don’t have absolute control? Sometimes, doing something wrong allows a person to grow, to become stronger, possibly even teach others the right way. The right way, which everyone hungrily seeks, cannot be found without failure. Take a left when you think you’re supposed to take a right, eat raw cookie dough, or even, if you’re feeling really adventurous, stay out an hour later! Fight the norm with all you’ve got, because succumbing to the proper choice makes for a dull, uninspired life. Need I remind you, you only get one of those. I think it’s in your best interest to make it count.

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Poetry

Her – Iman Messado

She didn’t move mountains–

she couldn’t swim rivers–
she didn’t know how to fly figure eights around the redwoods of California—
Her eyes weren’t romantic–
And the curve of her lips was rather sinister–
She wasn’t the least bit interesting–
the left pinky toe held more mystique than her entire head of thin brittle hair—
She walked like an old dog that knew no tricks–
Her voice was a high whine–
her hands were large, knotted and manly—
yet she was enough to drown me in the lakes of Venus—-
she was enough to singe my eyelashes in the heat of her gaze—–
she was enough to make me drink from all the moon’s glory——
her name was indistinguishable yet it is all I can mumble in my sleep——-
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Poetry

Regalities of Plainness, pt. II – Bryn Bluth

I gasped,

Over and over again I gasped.

Maybe he was in my lungs

And that’s why I had such a hard time breathing,

But he wasn’t there-

I know because I’ve always had bad lungs.

 

Perhaps that’s the reason I haven’t caught him,

My lungs gave out

When he took his leave.

Which I’m okay with- 

You can’t run very far without a spine.

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Poetry, Prosetry

Random Musings – Brooke Safferman

Why is there a cotton ball in the Advil jar?

Did you tell him a secret that he couldn’t keep?

Did you tell him that you would always love him, before you threw him away?

And why, oh why, would you think that it would be any different this time?

I hope there’s peanut butter still left in the jar in the pantry

I can’t remember what happened last night but I do know that peanut butter was involved

So involved, why do we do this to ourselves?

Humans, trembling and vulnerable, yet we bring this cruelty into our own lives by our very own doings

Telling each other lies because the truth is awfully boring to bear and

Why do my fingers keep typing when all my mind wants to do is SCREAM!

This is not right, this is not right!

And let these words ring out, free and unadulterated (much unlike you and I)

And let them echo out into the vortex that is the nighttime

When you are alone and isolated

And a teenager.

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Poetry

How to Smile – Brooke Safferman

Sleep, or something else quite calming seeps into my veins

Soporific, exotic, quixotic –

your free spirit kindles the kindred flame within my own heart,

and you tell me that you are glad that I exist

And then you let me in on a little secret

Together we fly away, in an airplane and only the two of us can feel the air

Streamlining through an atmosphere in which only we can breathe,

the two of us

and I forget how to say your name without a gasp of air escaping through my parted lips

But yet, I never forget

How to smile.

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Prosetry

addressed to you, not texas – Elena Barrera-Waters

every. single. time. that i talk about how much

i love the rain,

someone always says

“hey.

did you ever think that maybe it’s because you live here,

where sun and heat is all you see

and mosquitos tickle at your skin every time you go out?”

and every time someone asks me that same question

i say no, because,

maybe i love something just because i do.

and then they follow up,

“hey,

do you ever think that if you moved to somewhere

that rained all the time

you would get sick of it

just like you did here?”

and i said no because, sorry texas,

i’ve never been particularly in love with

sunshine or swimming holes or the perfect sno-cone.

some things, you just love.

some things, you just don’t.

i think i understand love.

and happiness, too.

there’s few things that bring me the same comfort

as the pitter-patter of rain against a window

or the perfect smell of rain boots

or the puddles left for us to stomp in.

one of those is you.

and maybe you’re a little bit texas,

but i like you a whole lot better than

sunshine or swimming holes or the perfect sno-cone.

some things, i just love.

and one of them is you.

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