Poetry
butterfly breaths
by Ana Chen
powdered sugar i wore on wednesday,
promiscuous little contretemps. nipples like
flip phones, antiqued
to the point of ridicule.
& i laugh at the charm that is mismatched
socks, haphazard flirtation. thursday i
macerated my teeth, marinated them
sweet. & my coffee was a bitter bright red as i dreamed
of your orisons: horizons of
cheap exhilaration.
idempotent: constants in these glittering
derivatives. e to the power of x to the marble that is
my depth my breath my breadth my
breasts. because i know too well the valleys in thighs &
high heels: blisters. the good kind.
supernumery? all right, i’m silent only because
i stumble over my words more easily than these
stilettos, but let’s pretend i can actually wield
this blade called stillness, can sculpt a woman
divided by zero. insouciant crooked teeth: am i
a revolutionary or just parasseuse? dollar store
ermine capes & clip-on gold hoops – sometimes i fuck
myself when i realize my kingdom is a circus but
nah, i’ll just melt this tiara
into my eyes, thank you. stuff my stomach with sarcasm &
chalkboard cocoons. to my pupils, my
purgatory pupae: go talk to my lawyer, i
am not responsible for these white lies but please
do shoot the messenger, this princess hirsute & bleached beneath
her fiduciary sequins. friday i met
a girl with cerulean hair & matching wings, who still
believed her mother. i
couldn’t stand her, told her
to undye her hair, unweave the plastic
she calls magic. undine, i later
shredded myself. cursed this fatuous infatuation
with stage presence, limelights & wings.
i wanted then to smoke: not
for the numbness, but for the veil that would wed me to
my chique chicanery, matrimony to
these silkworm fabrications. i do not have
symmetrical shoulder blades nor
remorse. who the fuck
is woman anyways. who the fuck
cares. i have slain prostrating lions, tore asunder
lies & liars, lain with a few
along the way. dicks up. bow down. saddled
dreams & hitchhiked with
nightmares to carry me here, swallowed
half a dozen curling irons. i never
comb my hair. library of modern alexandria: i read
everything from bildungsromans to nutrition labels,
one hundred calories in two tablespoons
of shakespeare.
& you, have you considered
expurgating my thighs, my sentiments? black marker
over my lips nails foundation deodorant? i fasted
on salted almonds once, cracked femininity into
whiskey husks. hated myself
afterwards, but admittedly i spent less money
than i would’ve on bovine blubber.
saturday i scaled a mountain
to buy soda bread, popped the blisters afterwards
on a tube of lipstick. sunday i spewed wounded pride
from hangnails & damselflies, caught a bumblebee
on my proboscis. weekend misery: larvae dreaming
of white gowns, whiter teeth. you
can see my bra if you look closely. & i
can see the grease in your wrinkles, your
discomfort. god made the world in seven days or
something like that. & i can pulverize my womb
in the same amount of time, sleepbleeder. menstruation:
microscopic chaos, mahogany champagne. i take pride
in balances, this straddle called je ne sais quoi.
okay fine, fine! i
am afraid – are you happy? & i confess
that aviator shades & red heels aside i know little
about king lear, less about
the true nature of a croissant. & okay, i don’t
have a lawyer but i trust i’ll find one, mold one myself, or
just hold my breath & snorkel although
i quit swimming years ago because chlorine is no good for my hair & okay, sometimes
i do hold a comb.
monday & tuesday
i will leave for you.
by Ana Chen
powdered sugar i wore on wednesday,
promiscuous little contretemps. nipples like
flip phones, antiqued
to the point of ridicule.
& i laugh at the charm that is mismatched
socks, haphazard flirtation. thursday i
macerated my teeth, marinated them
sweet. & my coffee was a bitter bright red as i dreamed
of your orisons: horizons of
cheap exhilaration.
idempotent: constants in these glittering
derivatives. e to the power of x to the marble that is
my depth my breath my breadth my
breasts. because i know too well the valleys in thighs &
high heels: blisters. the good kind.
supernumery? all right, i’m silent only because
i stumble over my words more easily than these
stilettos, but let’s pretend i can actually wield
this blade called stillness, can sculpt a woman
divided by zero. insouciant crooked teeth: am i
a revolutionary or just parasseuse? dollar store
ermine capes & clip-on gold hoops – sometimes i fuck
myself when i realize my kingdom is a circus but
nah, i’ll just melt this tiara
into my eyes, thank you. stuff my stomach with sarcasm &
chalkboard cocoons. to my pupils, my
purgatory pupae: go talk to my lawyer, i
am not responsible for these white lies but please
do shoot the messenger, this princess hirsute & bleached beneath
her fiduciary sequins. friday i met
a girl with cerulean hair & matching wings, who still
believed her mother. i
couldn’t stand her, told her
to undye her hair, unweave the plastic
she calls magic. undine, i later
shredded myself. cursed this fatuous infatuation
with stage presence, limelights & wings.
i wanted then to smoke: not
for the numbness, but for the veil that would wed me to
my chique chicanery, matrimony to
these silkworm fabrications. i do not have
symmetrical shoulder blades nor
remorse. who the fuck
is woman anyways. who the fuck
cares. i have slain prostrating lions, tore asunder
lies & liars, lain with a few
along the way. dicks up. bow down. saddled
dreams & hitchhiked with
nightmares to carry me here, swallowed
half a dozen curling irons. i never
comb my hair. library of modern alexandria: i read
everything from bildungsromans to nutrition labels,
one hundred calories in two tablespoons
of shakespeare.
& you, have you considered
expurgating my thighs, my sentiments? black marker
over my lips nails foundation deodorant? i fasted
on salted almonds once, cracked femininity into
whiskey husks. hated myself
afterwards, but admittedly i spent less money
than i would’ve on bovine blubber.
saturday i scaled a mountain
to buy soda bread, popped the blisters afterwards
on a tube of lipstick. sunday i spewed wounded pride
from hangnails & damselflies, caught a bumblebee
on my proboscis. weekend misery: larvae dreaming
of white gowns, whiter teeth. you
can see my bra if you look closely. & i
can see the grease in your wrinkles, your
discomfort. god made the world in seven days or
something like that. & i can pulverize my womb
in the same amount of time, sleepbleeder. menstruation:
microscopic chaos, mahogany champagne. i take pride
in balances, this straddle called je ne sais quoi.
okay fine, fine! i
am afraid – are you happy? & i confess
that aviator shades & red heels aside i know little
about king lear, less about
the true nature of a croissant. & okay, i don’t
have a lawyer but i trust i’ll find one, mold one myself, or
just hold my breath & snorkel although
i quit swimming years ago because chlorine is no good for my hair & okay, sometimes
i do hold a comb.
monday & tuesday
i will leave for you.
a month in a minute
by Anonymous
one month clean. it might have been three weeks. i wake up, my left arm aching. i haven’t felt that in quite some time. i look to see it covered in figments of what had once been. i can still see the pain, or rather, the relief, but i long to feel the blade against my bare skin once again. funny, isn’t it? something that i could never imagine myself doing, something my adolescent persona would flinch at the sight of became my lover. i reach into my bag, my hand immediately finds the greyscale scissors. the cool blade moves close to my disappearing scars as i yearn to see just one droplet of blood. these scars had once manifested themselves as my lifeline. now, they are hardly visible. inhaling sharply, i turn my head away. today was not the day. glancing up, i aimlessly draw another line next to the inaccurate number of lines that populated my white board. the red had turned to black and the pleasure had turned to regret. who was my hero rather than the feeling of solitude? then again, it began, over and over. funny how quickly a month can turn into a minute.
by Anonymous
one month clean. it might have been three weeks. i wake up, my left arm aching. i haven’t felt that in quite some time. i look to see it covered in figments of what had once been. i can still see the pain, or rather, the relief, but i long to feel the blade against my bare skin once again. funny, isn’t it? something that i could never imagine myself doing, something my adolescent persona would flinch at the sight of became my lover. i reach into my bag, my hand immediately finds the greyscale scissors. the cool blade moves close to my disappearing scars as i yearn to see just one droplet of blood. these scars had once manifested themselves as my lifeline. now, they are hardly visible. inhaling sharply, i turn my head away. today was not the day. glancing up, i aimlessly draw another line next to the inaccurate number of lines that populated my white board. the red had turned to black and the pleasure had turned to regret. who was my hero rather than the feeling of solitude? then again, it began, over and over. funny how quickly a month can turn into a minute.
First Down
by Chaim Durst
With what swizzle stick
Did you roil my underbelly?
Behind these crenulations
Thoughts of you turn me to jelly.
Must you bug me ‘till I love you?
Now you say with that
Talisman, your hat, askew
To drop important work, sit down,
And simply play an hour with you
Must you love me ‘till I bug you?
Implying that my nurtured
Mask of melancholia
Is somehow less significant
Then the chicken scrawl you draw.
Must I bug me ‘till I love me?
Find Me
by Chaim Durst
Free fall, mind-rape, discombobulation,
A stranger in yon shady nation.
Will you search until you find me?
Incantations I have come to fear:
Boozy fluids in my face, my box, my ear.
Will I hear you when you call me?
Handled rough, a master of the grieve
Released at last from this painful sleeve.
Will I fear what has become me?
Wracked by DTs of an introspective mind
Shards of me that only you can find.
Will I hide me when you find me?
Plant a mark on our heart’s rendezvous.
Whatever mask your wear, I’ll know it’s you.
Will I hold me when I find me?The Motions
by Emi Luo
I don’t know
where I am,
or who’s around me.
Not that it would matter,
because even if I knew,
I wouldn’t know who’s with me.
Not that it would matter,
because even if I knew,
I don’t know anything.
Get what I give,
and I get it.
But did I get when I gave,
or did I forget to give it.
Forgive me.
I could be wrong
like I often am,
but remember I don’t know
Anything.
So I’ll take your advice.
I’ll do what you tell me,
and I won’t have any
Expectations.
Is it gaslighting,
or am I just igniting
my own deluded
Prophecy.
I don’t know a thing,
but I know how I feel.
So I’ll just sit here and
Pretend.
by Emi Luo
I don’t know
where I am,
or who’s around me.
Not that it would matter,
because even if I knew,
I wouldn’t know who’s with me.
Not that it would matter,
because even if I knew,
I don’t know anything.
Get what I give,
and I get it.
But did I get when I gave,
or did I forget to give it.
Forgive me.
I could be wrong
like I often am,
but remember I don’t know
Anything.
So I’ll take your advice.
I’ll do what you tell me,
and I won’t have any
Expectations.
Is it gaslighting,
or am I just igniting
my own deluded
Prophecy.
I don’t know a thing,
but I know how I feel.
So I’ll just sit here and
Pretend.
painted white
by Eric Kim
I am a blank canvas
for people to paint.
Some colors mingle, some colors mix
Some colors leave a mess I cannot seem to fix
Some leave a doodle, some leave a stain
Some shoot their pellets straight through my brain
I want to find my true colors, my purest state,
but scraping off the paint reveals a blank slate.
who am I what do I stand for when will I realize where my home is and how do I become the best version of me when this version of me isn't even me
but a blank canvas
for people to paint.
by Eric Kim
I am a blank canvas
for people to paint.
Some colors mingle, some colors mix
Some colors leave a mess I cannot seem to fix
Some leave a doodle, some leave a stain
Some shoot their pellets straight through my brain
I want to find my true colors, my purest state,
but scraping off the paint reveals a blank slate.
who am I what do I stand for when will I realize where my home is and how do I become the best version of me when this version of me isn't even me
but a blank canvas
for people to paint.
a heartfelt letter
by Eric Kim
Dear closest friend,
You can't push me away
every time shit hits the fan.
You can't ignore me and say
"You're not a real man".
You can't say my feelings don't matter,
and you can't say you want me gone either.
You say you hate me, you say you loathe me, you say you would rather kill me than spend the rest of our lives together.
But you know that's not true.
Despite what you keep telling yourself,
you know that's not true.
I'm still here for you, I still care about you, and I still love you.
You're my day one, and my love too.
Your #1 supporter and fan,
Yourself
by Eric Kim
Dear closest friend,
You can't push me away
every time shit hits the fan.
You can't ignore me and say
"You're not a real man".
You can't say my feelings don't matter,
and you can't say you want me gone either.
You say you hate me, you say you loathe me, you say you would rather kill me than spend the rest of our lives together.
But you know that's not true.
Despite what you keep telling yourself,
you know that's not true.
I'm still here for you, I still care about you, and I still love you.
You're my day one, and my love too.
Your #1 supporter and fan,
Yourself