Oct 06


They lay together in her basement, him sitting on the couch with her head in his lap. She sprawled out perpendicular to him, on her belly with her legs swaying in the air. Her chin jutted into the valley between his legs, eyes intent upon a book.
"Have you ever thought about how love is just a bunch of chemical signals?" It was abrupt, but this he was used to, especially from her.
"Hasn't everyone?"
His reply came swiftly, and could have snapped off the conversation right there, but he slowed his fingers on her scalp and mulled it over. Though he wasn't quite sure if she was listening, he continued."If it's so scientific, then why have so many poems and songs and books been written about it?"
"Simple," (So she hadn't been reading. He should have known.). "Our brains are so adapted to breed that an emotion like that overwhelms us."
The boy was still unconvinced. A smile spread over his face as he lifted her head off him. He leapt up.
Oct 06


No one knows she stole.
If it weren’t for them, she’d be blank.
Her mask is hardening.
Such detailed paint…
there’s nothing underneath.
Blackness can’t support color.

There’s no escape in,
just forever darkening
color drying up.

But when she collapses,
her shadows will spill out,
and drown everyone.

There must be light within, they think.
But with their own gloaming’s creep
nothing is seen beyond.

Surely everyone is fighting as hard as them,
surely she sees that dyes are valuable
and brushstrokes are soft,
no time to think of this now.

She knows she's rotting inside.
Instead of cracking herself open,
Letting everyone know she's failed,
she strengthens the walls
so nothing can escape.

So nothing can enter.

She doesn't know that
problems unseen
just grow.

She tries.
Sep 29


they          listened     in           the             woods    watched
waited       for              the        birds           of           leaves
for            wind          voices   changing    colors     turning
summer                    and       coats          fading     darker
after they                  saw       in               and

they forgot all else.
Sep 24


I trace the markings on the splintering wood in front of me, freezing my gasp before it bursts free of my lips. My body may be imprisoned, but I can’t stop the crimson that swells and balances on the tip of my finger. I touch the liquid to my mouth before it spills, cursing myself silently for thinking up such a stupid plan. But it’s too late now. I can’t signal Limos or Penia without being seen, so I have to stay here, crouching my knees stiff, nothing to distract me from picturing bread lathered with soft, creamy cheese, juicy olives dripping with fatty oil, crisp apples and-


I startle, but keep the tension from slipping out of my veins. It’s only natural to do so when you hear your sister’s voice sharpened into such panic.

“Please ma’am! My sister’s been badly hurt!”

The baker’s wife has a deep voice that rumbles up rather suspiciously.

“How’s she been hurt, then?”
Sep 24


You ask who I am. What a question. For how can one know exactly who they are, who they are separated from the tedious flow of everyday life?

I wake up. I eat. I dress. I pack a lunch. I bike to school. I go to my classes and do what is expected of me. I bike home. I do my homework. I do any chores that are requested of me. I eat. I shower. I sleep.

Sometimes I do a class or two after school. Or I’ll practice an instrument before school. I’ll write, I’ll read, I’ll swim when I get home. But these are done out of necessity, out of a wanting to improve myself simply to greedily gulp the pleasure it produces.

How can such a committed schedule produce a sense of being?

Because I write, am I an author? Because I draw, am I an artist?

Perhaps. Perhaps not. After all, it’s nothing but  a matter of opinion.
Sep 24


The forest had finally  thinned enough for me to see it; a splash of red not yet sunken into the the sheer vastness of it all. A barn sandwiched in between folds of white. Like a page without thinness, a comforter without creases, the color was rolled out across everything. With each step, I struggled to stay afloat, not realizing I’d be joined by another survivor.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Barn!” I called out good-naturedly, hacking my way through the muffled air.  “How lucky we are to soak in such a glorious day together, wouldn’t you agree?”

The building remained impassive, though a sprinkling of powder rose from his rooftops and whirled down to the ground.

“Better to just observe it rather than shatter the peace, as I am doing, eh? Have it your way. I’m not attempting to intrude.”
Sep 24


     They say ignorance is bliss, and it's true. True enough for you to have an excuse to smile and laugh, not have to drown in your own guilt or sorrow or fear. For you, the world is drawing on sidewalks and being read to at night. Problems are getting a peanut butter sandwich in your lunch that's missing it's jelly, or not getting to go to the park like you wanted. But although deep enough to spurt tears, those moments are fade after minutes. Not worn and stretched out across years the way they get over time. I try hard to shelter you, drawing up false tales that surround us. But still I fear the day it will shudder, crack and shatter deep into our skin. And everyone knows what happens to those too afraid to let these weaknesses show.
Sep 24


     A year after my parent’s divorce, my Mom finally figured out that maybe I wasn’t going to just “get used to it”. The most probable cause for this, from what I can decipher, is the fact that I spend most of my time alone in my room, reading or staring at pictures scattered across the internet. Nothing like that. I’m not that kind of person. No, I think it’s more about how I’m alone, without anyone else, all by myself. And did I mention that it’s just me in my room? That’s more or less how Mom puts it, despite my complaints about redundancy. She’s dragged me off to a therapist before, the only reason for which is that she’s hoping for a diagnosis. Internal conflict, separation anxiety, or maybe something more dramatic, depression  or suicidal thoughts perhaps.
Sep 24


     It started late, deep into the night. Far past the footsteps and whispers, far past the worry. If there was any concern, it would be when the snores would shudder, and then she’d pause, hold her breath, before continuing alongside the rumbling.

The world was always dark to her, and despite months of seeing it, she always took time to admire the thick coating of blackness over anything, the way she could hold her eyes wide open and still not see her hand inches away from her face. When she shifted across the mattress, sitting cross legged, she could hear and feel the old springs harmonize with her movement, but never see the subtle lumps that rose against her flesh. Night had never failed to fascinate her, but it had been woven into her daily routines, as common as tooth-brushing and breakfast-eating. Common. But never ordinary.
Sep 24


She was flying.

     She wasn’t sure how she had gotten there really. It wasn’t important, a small thought tucked away in the back of her mind. Who would pay attention to such an idea when you can taste the very juice of the world ?

     She closed her eyes, safe in knowing just how open this world was to her. The blurring of bright sunlight and blue sky together clicked away, still orangy behind her lids, but far away enough so that she could really live this instead of just watching it happen to her. Her mind, instead of nagging at her with thoughts of collision and pain, allowed the change. Gently directed her thoughts toward her skin.