All The Things I Didn’t Say - Ana Radojevic

I don’t like feeling angry.

I don’t understand anger.

Anger is a secondary emotion and I’m less happy with my primary emotion.

I’m angry, nonetheless.

I’m angry that I can’t be angry with you.

I’m angry that you are considerate and funny, but not in the bare-minimum kind of way.

I mean, you’re considerate in the way where you come to my dorm at midnight, just to give me a hug, because I said I had a shitty day.

Not in the way where I say I had a shitty day and you wish me the best of luck.

And you’re funny in the way that it seems so natural and I don’t even realize I’ve been smiling because it feels like second nature,

Not funny in the way where we have back and forth banter that’s easily synthesized.

And there are a million (and that’s an exaggeration but perhaps not) other qualities I find absolutely beautiful about you.

I’m angry that I can’t be angry at you. 

So I guess I will be angry at me.

I’m angry about all the things I didn’t say.

I’m angry that I never said “I like you too.”

And I know my actions probably told you- or at least I hope they did,

But I wish I would have told you.

I’m angry that I never said that I miss you.

And I don’t mean just when you said it before I went to visit my mother and I didn’t say it back,

I mean I wish I said “I miss you” at 3:30 when you're taking a nap after your class,

Or when I laid beside you at midnight.

I wish when we were watching TV in bed, like my parents do, and you looked at me and asked, “What if I wanted to kiss you right now?” 

I wish I would have said “So then you should probably kiss me,” instead of whatever bullshit response my fear formulated.

I’m angry that I didn’t.

I wish that when I asked to talk and then you told me it just wasn’t the right time for us I would have fought harder.

I’m not sure what exactly I would have said, or if anything would have made everything change,

But I wish that I didn’t just let you leave.

I’m angry that I did.

I guess there’s nothing to be angry about with you, so I will settle for being angry at all the things I didn’t say. 

C4 101-1 - Olivia Stephani

Painting in red, flashes of what could be and voices that aren’t my own. I wonder if it will be like this forever, the rage kissing the good, the emptiness kissing the bad. How many conversations can I remember to forget. Salted or sweet. Both or neither. I perform well when I paint in blue, swirling and stumbling. Bic lighters, stale crackers, the smell of rotting flesh. White turns to pink to purple to yellow. I only think in multiples of five.

Hallowed, consecrated, rendered holy by the white coat. Slather it on my body and roll me through the hot air. Peace is prosperity. I ride the cherry waves and press the pedal. Emptied out by a flush draw, odds are stacked against me. 1 in 120 only sounds bad if you say it out loud. Splitter. Silver Linings. Solitude. I prefer to take the pound of flesh from myself.

Lie with me in this bell jar and watch the noise around us quiet. A spark only becomes a fire if you let it.

Pressured Speech - Olivia Stephani

Today I’m wrapped in cellophane

Held together by balls of chewing gum and straws

Bubbling, snapping, threatening to swallow myself whole

I count dreams when I’m awake and asleep except I don’t sleep and the dreams come when I’m somewhere in between looking at the ceiling while a spider crawls to her nest In the corner and a candle burns beneath it, the scent traveling through the room, choking me until the gum melts away from my bones and I’m left unraveled

The spinner keeps spinning keeps spinning keep spinning and I’ll stay there while she gets to live in my dream with wax dripping down the walls, burning the paint off until it all melts away

The next today I let it drop

And by then the wax is crusted over, walls charred. I feel ascension in this paper house as the spinner lies dried in the corner and suddenly I wish I was running into a ditch with platinum in my hand.

Laugh at the spinner laughing at me 

Laugh at me laugh at me laugh at me

104 cards and I play them all face up

The fool is weak and so am I

Residue - Olivia Stephani

I didn’t know what gunpowder tasted like until you touched me but it was sour like the milk from her lips and the juices from the rotting pomegranate you left defiled on the kitchen table. Sweet like the honey that drips from the comb and onto your silver tongue but sweet as in sweet and sweet and sour. More sour than sweet some days but always the same and never changing. While I stay like the pomegranate on the kitchen table but that was her not me, right? And I am her and the touch was never sweet but always vinegar poured down my throat until it filled my mouth and spilled from the corners making its way down my neck and onto the peaks of my chest, gravity pulling it to the floor. And I would follow the vinegar down down down until there was nothing but the puddle and yes, it was sour and yes I liked it. I didn’t like it? Oh okay well I didn’t like it.

The lights look brighter from down here dangling above me, staring at me, taunting me like they know I want to touch them while vinegar pours from my eyes. And there’s the gun on the table but it’s just out of reach so if only the juices flood then it will float and float it did and I had it in my hand but the shot is empty as I go to turn it on myself and nothing comes out but vapor from barrels that smell of sweat and brine and nothing sweet and I wish I never knew her milk.

Untitled - Juliette Humphreys

For your mother being a clairvoyant she should’ve seen how much I’d hate your name

You’ve always had a stupid name

I couldn’t help but giggle when I would yell it

No matter out of anger or loss

It’s not enough syllables to encapsulate the idea of you

But I’m not sure of who you are anymore

You’ve marked me forever and if I called you right now I don’t think you’d answer

We gave each other tattoos

You scrapped yours out of your flesh days later

Did you think salt would cleanse you of me?

Mine seethes and burns where it lays to rest on my knee forever

When you’d leave the dining table your mom would tell me how happy she was that we found each other

She didn’t know the secrets of how much we hated each other

We weren’t dating we weren’t in love we never knowingly touched

She didn’t know that when we shared a bed you would wrap an arm around me

Intertwine your legs with me and breathe deeply into my hair that you only played with when you were drunk

You didn’t even know you did all this

I could only see our future in your dreaming

She said she sees forever for us

And now it’s been three months and my heart does not pound for you

Your one syllable name is more dumb than profound

And our secrets are known

But do you smell his hair

Sneak your arm under his like a stray cat hiding from rain

Wrap legs like branches shaking in the wind

Do you explore in your dreams still

Or do you only live with me in your drunk and sadness

Does your mom see the same future with a different face

Did she see the future of me throwing away paint brushes and used canvas

Nothing was ever good enough

Was my name too long to ever yell

Mine and his have the same amount of syllables

Does he know my name

Does he know the rocks you gifted me are the voyeur on my bedroom windowsill

The only semblance of us knowing each other

Does he know all of those paintings are mine

Have I only prepared you for him

Is that what I spent all my time doing?

Was I the only one

Or the just the closest one around

Was the name calling of anything other than my name supposed to keep me grounded

Do beaten white cars smelling of cigarettes and vanilla perfume that i aired out for your asthma pass your road

Do you think it’s me coming home

Do you honestly think I would ever want to come home

Maybe in your dreams

That was the only place I ever existed

She/They Vagina - Juliette Humphreys

it is not ushy gushy

it is not pink and grippy. it's

unsightly. it leaks blood and secrets

like an open wound. it's

covered in moss and ash.

it barks and jujus on that

beat. it's a millennia

old and shy. it is a concave that

echoes when you speak into it.

it is decaying. it

weeps for eternal youth. it's

a hypnotic abyss of sorrow.

it sees dead people. it

has a bad oxy habit and

smokes a tobacco pipe.

June 21st - Juliette Humphreys

I've been listening to bluegrass to ignore the basket case of daddy issues poetry on my dresser. I'm too scared to feel him dying, how our joy sits alone, nestled crevices of syllables, bliss is not Sanctum, Senryu, survivors' guilt. His hair didn’t get to gray. most of it fell out. When will mine do the same? He said my hair was magic, thick like rope when he’d rip it out, tying it into knots. Now my hair sheds in clumps into the brush, the stress of our age showing. He’s not scared to die but he will scream in pain when it comes. My pre-written eulogy is filled with more questions than insightful anecdotes of who this man is and who he made me to be. I wonder if he'd shoot a jackalope. He saw the good and liked the good and took the good. He’s been bad but. He’s always had a phone book for a chest, too brave to *67. I answer his calls and he sighs. Would he like my voice better if i screamed or whispered? Would he hear it? Did he hear my first cry at birth? Did his hands shake cutting the cord as they shake now pouring stale coffee down the sink?. He buys coffee, newspaper, and an almond Hershey bar because he was a kid once too. The last time he cried was when he told me santa wasn’t real. When will be the next? I drove to the intersection of passion and suffering and they all knew him. It’s hard to leave someone you’ve bled on. We are both homesick in our separate bedrooms. This is not what we expected.

I Wish I Could - Mackenzie Bennett

Whenever I think about—

No. Erase that thought.

Erase it. Bury it. Burn it.

I don’t care—just get rid of it.

If only I could. If only

It was that easy. That simple.

Do you understand?

Instead of releasing it I let it brand my skin

And sink into my bones

as if it was my burden to carry.

As if the fault lies with me

And not with you.

I took what you did

And let it decide my worth.

The words, No one will love you

Seared into my flesh.

I tried to carve it out

But I buried it deep.

My shovel couldn’t reach.

You understand?

I can’t forget.

I wish I could.

I wish I could make you understand.

This sinking of my chest

And how it tightens with every breath.

How my stomach wrenches,

Burns. And the way my heart pounds,

thrashes around like a rat trapped in a cage.

Bound in chains that you created.

Could you hear my mind screaming?

Echoing in that silence

I begged. I begged my limbs to move.

I felt the words “no” and “stop” rise in my throat

But my lips cemented.

My mind screamed.

Leave

Get up

I stayed.

The Lord’s Prayer at 3AM on a Saturday - Mena Brazinski

The Lord’s Prayer at 3am on a Saturday sounds like I haven’t been to church in years,

Sounds like heels slapping on a wooden floor,

Sounds like bated breath and looking over my shoulder.

Lord, watch over my brothers tonight, at this party, in this life,

Forever and always,

Keep them close to me,

Keep them close to you and guide them as they navigate these circumstances and the night that follows it,

And the night after that, too.

Forgive me for imposing. For overstepping. For being so bold.

I worry about them a lot.

I know that that’s your job.

Forgive me for trying to look after them.

Forgive me for not doing it well enough.

As often.

Lord,

Watch over my friends

As they move through the world and the people in it,

As they move the world and the people in it,

As they become the world and the people in it.

And Lord, watch over me

Because I’m high and walking home alone and I’m 17,

And being high and walking home alone are two things you’re not supposed to do at 17

(Or ever)

The details are hazy

But doing things you’re not supposed to do is also part is being 17.

It’s exactly what you’re supposed to be doing at 17.

I know, I know

What you would say

What you are saying

Reckless.

Careless.

Wasteful.

You offer me my life, golden, stretched out before me, and I spit it back in your smiling face.

I thank you by risking it.

Forgive me for that, too.

I’m sorry the only reason I know the serenity prayer is because it was recited on Grey’s Anatomy.

I’m sorry I care more for sonnets than psalms.

I’m sorry the only prayers I know come from the year I lost a few family members.

God, do you remember it?

All the funerals?

Like dominoes, one after the other, hardly a breath or a month between.

I was young.

I know the poem on the back of all the calling cards,

I can recite it.

Even now.

And the one that begins “O Divine Master”

You know it

I like that one quite a bit, actually.

I know I don’t think of you as much as I probably should, but I pray every time I read Mary Oliver out loud or tell my father I love him.

Which I also do not do as much as I should.

Right, the worrying.

I’m sorry.

It is not my job.

I sign off prayers the way I do because of the way I loved someone at 13.

That feels religious to me.

Sacred.

Holy.

A sabbath all its own.

Lord, please bring them home safe.

Lord, I’m sorry for walking out of the church school basement.

Sorry for pretending to be proud of it.

For telling the story so many times.

And for lying.

And for taking to you like this

And by like this,

I mean high.

By like this,

I mean brazen.

I’m sorry for that too.

Lord, thank you.

For forced proximity and the shoes Mitra bought me,

The black ones that don’t hurt my feet,

The ones I can dance in for hours.

Thank you for the nights I’ve danced for hours.

No complaints, I promise.

I do hope the shaking ends soon, though.

I’m sorry for taking your name in vain.

For swearing and drinking.

For watching Fleabag betray you in your own house and rooting for her.

I’m sorry for apologizing so much.

Thank you for the people I’ve met, for the ones I’ve been lucky enough to keep with me.

Not that I’m in any position to make demands,

But if it’s not too much to ask,

If I don’t go to Hell for this,

I’d like them back unscathed.

No.

Whole.

They deserve to be more than barely unbroken.

Thank you, Lord.

Goodnight.

Months - Lloyd Lane

It’s December of my sixteenth year and for the first time in my life I have a girl who tells me she loves me and I am drunk on the way it makes me feel. Not the way she makes me feel, but how being loved by someone makes me feel, how, for the first time, I am wanted and important and there is someone to ask about my day and someone to tell about my day and someone to spend my days with and then after, I recount to her the day we spent together.

It's January of my sixteenth year and for the first time I’ve got something to do after work, someone to meet me in the parking lot, a thought curling around me while I teach children on Saturday mornings whose mothers would clutch their pearls if they knew who I was dating, except we’re not dating, not quite, we are something else entirely. I don’t know how to define it, but if someone ever puts it into words, I will nod once, begrudgingly concede, and I will very deliberately not text her about it. And this girl and I, we go on dates in dive bars and hold hands under the tables and she pays for my dinners while we watch the drunk adults on the east side of the town I grew up in, the side by the river, the side that floods every spring, get even drunker while they watch basketball on Sunday afternoons. And they yell at the players and the TV and they yell at the waitresses but never once do they yell at us, a pair of teenagers with wind-kissed cheeks who fight over the bills and never drive home while it’s still light out. I have never felt closer to heaven. I have never been further from God.

It's February of my sixteenth year and we exchange Valentine’s Day gifts the Tuesday before in a chain restaurant parking lot while I really should be studying for my precalculus exam. The next day I find out I got an eighty, and my cheeks flush with pride, quite like they did when I was sitting in the booth of the restaurant and she’s bought me a scone, this girl, and I’m studying my books and my equations and she is studying my looks and my expressions and she tells me “The way strands of your hair fall in to your face when you’re concentrating is so beautiful” and I am so full of love I could burst, as if nothing she could do could possibly endear me to her any further.

It's March of my sixteenth year and the girl and I are in another parking lot. I’ve gone from seeing her one, two times a week to five and we no longer go out for dinner or watch the stars, now, the girl and I, we mostly pretend. It’s all we do. We pretend her backseat is big enough for two grown girls who hate the way their bodies move, the obscurity of it all, gangly limbs and elbows and knees, bruised arms draped over fumbling hands and sweaty shoulders. She hits her arm on her seatbelt buckle and I pretend I don’t see her wince. I become indifferent to her pain. We pretend the snow isn’t melting. We pretend we’ve an endless amount of time stretched before us, that somehow, the steady turning of the Earth will be stopped for two teenagers who now keep pillows in the backseat so no one hits her arm on the seatbelt buckle and winces, but mostly so that no one has to pretend she doesn’t see the other wincing and that winter will go one forever. We pretend we won’t rot like food left out of the fridge too long when the ice turns to water and the east side of the town I was raised in floods and the bars we held hands under the tables in won’t be covered in a quarter inch of water, foundations shaking like my gawky knees. She pretends I’m not young and naive and unworldly; I pretend she’s not old and careless and hotheaded. We both pretend the other will change.

It’s April of my sixteenth year and I’m trying on prom dresses for a dance I know she won’t be able to take me to, fantasizing about matching my gown to her tie, and I let the fabric swish around me, hating the way it hugs my frame and I joke about wanting to go in a suit instead, and how I don’t want to disappoint my parents, except I am very serious about both of those things. Madison’s mom takes me shopping and pays for my dinner and helps zip up my dresses, and I wonder what it’s like to have a mother like her, and I know you wonder the same thing too, and I think about how you wanted me to be that for you, just a little bit, but I couldn’t, and I am sorry about a lot but I am not sorry for that. It’s April of my sixteenth year and the girl and I stay overnight together, playing house for the second time, mimicking the good role models we didn’t have and screaming at each other the same way that they used to. My younger self listens from the railing, staying up past my bedtime to eavesdrop on my parents’ one-sided shouting matches. It is the most kinship I have felt towards my mother in years.

It’s May of my sixteenth year and the girl hasn’t called me in nearly three weeks and I am pretending I am not at all bothered by this new arrangement we have, because I am a lot of things, but mostly I am stubborn, and I am in love, but more so the first, and so I decide I would rather die than be the first one to pick up the telephone and ask her why she has decided she doesn’t care for me anymore.

It's May of my sixteenth year and I get a phone call in the middle of a play, and I know it’s from her, I just do, because who else is that brazen? Who else thinks they’re more important than my friend’s show? And my first thought is that someone died, something tragic has happened, but no one did, and nothing has, it’s just you, and I almost wish it did, because I’ve decided the only thing worse than not hearing from you is hearing from you sporadically. I answer and make polite conversation and hate myself fiercely for doing so.

It’s June of my sixteenth year and I forget to call you on your birthday, forget you even have a birthday, which is shameful of me, I know. I can’t conjure up any feelings of remorse.

It’s July of my sixteenth year and I drive through your town while on a family vacation and try not to think about my history here, the weight the ground holds, the roads you let me drive on, the people I was naked in front of, and the ghosts I lived with, the ones that follow me to this day.

It’s August, I think?

It’s September and I am in the final month of my sixteenth year and I am back at school and you are back at school, and I don’t miss you, not quite, but I do miss the cigarettes you used to buy me at the gas station that didn’t card in the town that raised me, and I have also grown weary of living in the town that raised me. I miss wrapping my lips around something that I know could kill me, and yes-- most times that means cigarettes, and yes-- sometimes that means you, and I don’t know what that says about me or my sense of self preservation. I think I’d light anything I could on fire as long as I know I’d get to be there to watch it burn. It’s September of my sixteenth year and someone who looks like you walks by me and for a moment, I cannot breathe, for a moment, I am a person I stopped being months ago, choking on clouds of smoke you paid for, throat painted red by the hand I worshipped.

It’s December again, and my friends are home from school, and when the offer arises, I do not turn them down. I am taking one from the pack, I am raising it to my lips,

I am promising to quit

I am promising to quit