Black Bear
Haley Henry
Brown snout wiggles among midnight fur.
A gentle, tree climbing giant from which
there is no escape. Overbearing mother
of clumsy cubs. They curiously scatter
through the conifers, crisscrossing
as they play. Never straying too far from
their tired mother.
Snap!
Alert, aware, learned aggression from years
of love lost. Stripped away by buck shots and
buffalo plaid. She stands poised, preparing
to pounce once she sees the two-legged mammal.
But she is faster, stronger;
her cubs’ escape her only priority.
Fatally Fearless.
A buck perks up in the distance from where it can feel the mother’s stare.
False alarm.
Huffing heated breath, she slumps along.
Soft flurries gather on her lashes,
a sign that the sleep-filled months are imminent.
Her sons’ snorts and playful snarls fill her ears
as she gathers berries.
Keeping an ever-watchful eye.
A gentle, tree climbing giant from which
there is no escape. Overbearing mother
of clumsy cubs. They curiously scatter
through the conifers, crisscrossing
as they play. Never straying too far from
their tired mother.
Snap!
Alert, aware, learned aggression from years
of love lost. Stripped away by buck shots and
buffalo plaid. She stands poised, preparing
to pounce once she sees the two-legged mammal.
But she is faster, stronger;
her cubs’ escape her only priority.
Fatally Fearless.
A buck perks up in the distance from where it can feel the mother’s stare.
False alarm.
Huffing heated breath, she slumps along.
Soft flurries gather on her lashes,
a sign that the sleep-filled months are imminent.
Her sons’ snorts and playful snarls fill her ears
as she gathers berries.
Keeping an ever-watchful eye.
well-intended
Estella Lepore
i am no nurse
i am no healer
i'm a faithless heartless non-believer
i am a woman with hands made of fire
and a never ending well of water for a heart
I'll set the world ablaze
then find someone else to blame
call 9 1 1 cuz she's gone crazy again
my hands are not so clean
i leave a trail of wreckage behind me
don't fall for her old tricks
the only promise she keeps
is the kiss of death
she is no angel she is no savior
she isn't worth it so don't forgive her
well-intended with knives for fingers
a doe-eyed girl is a sign of danger
meeting her is a recipe for disaster
cuz nice girls aren't good for good people
i am no healer
i'm a faithless heartless non-believer
i am a woman with hands made of fire
and a never ending well of water for a heart
I'll set the world ablaze
then find someone else to blame
call 9 1 1 cuz she's gone crazy again
my hands are not so clean
i leave a trail of wreckage behind me
don't fall for her old tricks
the only promise she keeps
is the kiss of death
she is no angel she is no savior
she isn't worth it so don't forgive her
well-intended with knives for fingers
a doe-eyed girl is a sign of danger
meeting her is a recipe for disaster
cuz nice girls aren't good for good people
Candor
Nia Davis
l lied.
Not only to others but to myself
Every moment I say I'm over him
That I feel nothing
It's a lie
It's like I try so hard to convince myself it's true
But in reality just hearing his name pulls at my heart strings.
And when I see him, my heart skips a beat
In every word we exchange, every story I see
It's a reminder that he exists
A reminder that I was never really over him
I lied.
Not because I wanted to
But because I needed to I needed for it to be true
Out of sight, out of mind is what I always say
Because whenever I don't see him
Whenever there's nothing to remind me of him
I can go on in life and that lie starts to feel like the truth
Until it doesn't.
And foolishly I'm forced to think about him
Maybe I'll never be completely free of the chains that he unknowingly has on me
Or maybe, eventually I'll finally be able to completely let him go
To see him and feel nothing
Not only to others but to myself
Every moment I say I'm over him
That I feel nothing
It's a lie
It's like I try so hard to convince myself it's true
But in reality just hearing his name pulls at my heart strings.
And when I see him, my heart skips a beat
In every word we exchange, every story I see
It's a reminder that he exists
A reminder that I was never really over him
I lied.
Not because I wanted to
But because I needed to I needed for it to be true
Out of sight, out of mind is what I always say
Because whenever I don't see him
Whenever there's nothing to remind me of him
I can go on in life and that lie starts to feel like the truth
Until it doesn't.
And foolishly I'm forced to think about him
Maybe I'll never be completely free of the chains that he unknowingly has on me
Or maybe, eventually I'll finally be able to completely let him go
To see him and feel nothing
Purple Nails in Spring
Jayme Moyer
Radiation on the confetti of my nineteenth birthday–
Four months away, but time turns endlessly–
And if all the hours joined together,
I'd be hopping on a cranberry sky.
My throat hates the smoke, but I like the light
Of the fireworks in April on this clear, sullen night.
Let me cry on my birthday for my age is less;
The flowers aren't so pretty on a teen’s death bed.
Kill me of this tea party’s lifetime sentence;
The chamomile is stronger than chloroform.
I'd rather huff clorox in my high school’s closet
Than smoke nicotine with the janitor of my home.
Every two weeks I pluck the hairs on my face;
They are orderly yet never stay sound.
Every creature is born, lives, then dies;
I am alike but never a wolfhound.
I rip the growth of my nails constantly,
But I've never caught them in the act.
How is it that my body is so definite and concrete
But Picasso was right to make it abstract?
I am a prism, shifting in the light,
Reflecting a dusty aura–murky and ready to bite.
My face is a beach sunset, between blush and ocean blue,
Enough to combine so pleasantly like a lilac river of fondue.
Robin eggs float in blood, impounded by an onyx dam,
Phasing through each other to turn my legs to yolky jam.
My hair streams down in satin waves, soft as amethyst silk.
Like butterfly wings deeper than sky, I'm velvet and buttermilk.
But, in two short months, I turn nineteen,
Weaning innocence like the Ram.
The Tower’s number foretells my fate,
Looming over fine china filled with ale.
The sixteenth reeks of vanilla incense,
Maybe enough to burn down the house.
The bees in the walls sing a court-made term
For me in April’s honorary jailhouse.
Four months away, but time turns endlessly–
And if all the hours joined together,
I'd be hopping on a cranberry sky.
My throat hates the smoke, but I like the light
Of the fireworks in April on this clear, sullen night.
Let me cry on my birthday for my age is less;
The flowers aren't so pretty on a teen’s death bed.
Kill me of this tea party’s lifetime sentence;
The chamomile is stronger than chloroform.
I'd rather huff clorox in my high school’s closet
Than smoke nicotine with the janitor of my home.
Every two weeks I pluck the hairs on my face;
They are orderly yet never stay sound.
Every creature is born, lives, then dies;
I am alike but never a wolfhound.
I rip the growth of my nails constantly,
But I've never caught them in the act.
How is it that my body is so definite and concrete
But Picasso was right to make it abstract?
I am a prism, shifting in the light,
Reflecting a dusty aura–murky and ready to bite.
My face is a beach sunset, between blush and ocean blue,
Enough to combine so pleasantly like a lilac river of fondue.
Robin eggs float in blood, impounded by an onyx dam,
Phasing through each other to turn my legs to yolky jam.
My hair streams down in satin waves, soft as amethyst silk.
Like butterfly wings deeper than sky, I'm velvet and buttermilk.
But, in two short months, I turn nineteen,
Weaning innocence like the Ram.
The Tower’s number foretells my fate,
Looming over fine china filled with ale.
The sixteenth reeks of vanilla incense,
Maybe enough to burn down the house.
The bees in the walls sing a court-made term
For me in April’s honorary jailhouse.
What's Expected
Haley Henry
Lying in bed, existential dread can be romanticized.
“You’re still so young, only twenty-three!”
“You have your whole life ahead of you.”
Forgive me for being ungrateful;
if the life ahead is anything like I’ve experienced thus far,
I don’t want it.
Like a stone at the mercy of the riverbed:
tumbled, tossed, in constant tumultuous turmoil.
My uniqueness smoothed out. The parts of me
paved over in soulless cement.
Perfect to park your “precious Prius”.
I don’t want to keep going.
Always strong for someone else, never myself.
Shoving through day after day, exhausted
by every tiny thing.
Tired of being.
New people stumble across,
I imagine they can hear through my laugh.
They already took the best parts of me.
You took the best parts of me.
Leaving behind scraps of your decimation.
“You’ll get better with time.”
“The more you grow, the less it hurts.”
So wise, seasoned, experienced.
Have they ever considered
that it doesn’t?
How can they possibly know
how I feel? Live through what I have,
then look me in my eyes. Tell me,
“I’m fine. I’m happy.”
That’s what I thought.
But I’ll blow out the candles,
“Happy Birthday to me.”
I’ll go to math class,
“Yes! I got a B!”
I’ll drive home,
“Hey mom, letting you know I’ll be home by three.”
Even though the wreckage of you,
I’ll do what’s expected of me.
Even on my worst days,
sun still shines through autumnal leaves.
Your evil didn’t stop the world’s spin.
Still pushing through. Leaving my footprint
in the form of Ibuprofen bottles. Mascara stained
sweatshirt sleeves and sleepless nights.
Dragging my fractured self along, my only solace;
I was the bigger one of us.
“You’re still so young, only twenty-three!”
“You have your whole life ahead of you.”
Forgive me for being ungrateful;
if the life ahead is anything like I’ve experienced thus far,
I don’t want it.
Like a stone at the mercy of the riverbed:
tumbled, tossed, in constant tumultuous turmoil.
My uniqueness smoothed out. The parts of me
paved over in soulless cement.
Perfect to park your “precious Prius”.
I don’t want to keep going.
Always strong for someone else, never myself.
Shoving through day after day, exhausted
by every tiny thing.
Tired of being.
New people stumble across,
I imagine they can hear through my laugh.
They already took the best parts of me.
You took the best parts of me.
Leaving behind scraps of your decimation.
“You’ll get better with time.”
“The more you grow, the less it hurts.”
So wise, seasoned, experienced.
Have they ever considered
that it doesn’t?
How can they possibly know
how I feel? Live through what I have,
then look me in my eyes. Tell me,
“I’m fine. I’m happy.”
That’s what I thought.
But I’ll blow out the candles,
“Happy Birthday to me.”
I’ll go to math class,
“Yes! I got a B!”
I’ll drive home,
“Hey mom, letting you know I’ll be home by three.”
Even though the wreckage of you,
I’ll do what’s expected of me.
Even on my worst days,
sun still shines through autumnal leaves.
Your evil didn’t stop the world’s spin.
Still pushing through. Leaving my footprint
in the form of Ibuprofen bottles. Mascara stained
sweatshirt sleeves and sleepless nights.
Dragging my fractured self along, my only solace;
I was the bigger one of us.
A Flower in the Fall
Nia Davis
Why did I foolishly allow you to plant a seed in my heart.
A seed that grows from the water of your attention.
Every moment we exchange words the seed increases in size and leaves a lasting impression
I don’t think that seed has reached its full potential
It has yet to turn into a flower, I’m not sure which flower that might be
But the less and less I let you inhabit my garden, the less the seed grows
And now the flower grew
I could no longer avoid you
Your water has seeped into the roots of my body and my soul
It’s a beautiful flower
A beautiful flower yet deadly
Lily of the valley
Isn’t it fascinating how something so pulchritudinous can be so painful?
And the flower you grew in my heart, is the very thing that’s killing me
Slowly
Until I begin to wither
Just as a flower
In the Fall
A seed that grows from the water of your attention.
Every moment we exchange words the seed increases in size and leaves a lasting impression
I don’t think that seed has reached its full potential
It has yet to turn into a flower, I’m not sure which flower that might be
But the less and less I let you inhabit my garden, the less the seed grows
And now the flower grew
I could no longer avoid you
Your water has seeped into the roots of my body and my soul
It’s a beautiful flower
A beautiful flower yet deadly
Lily of the valley
Isn’t it fascinating how something so pulchritudinous can be so painful?
And the flower you grew in my heart, is the very thing that’s killing me
Slowly
Until I begin to wither
Just as a flower
In the Fall
stained
Estella Lepore
i am still finding shards of you
embedded in my skin, stinging
sharp splinters piercing my psyche
just when i think i am done
i have searched by whole body
smothered every spark
there it is, again
thick smoke clinging to cotton
i cannot cleanse myself of you
your touch; my fear
singed skin where fingers slid
memory claws at my throat,
inside forever claimed
my body bathed and coated,
stomach-churning stench
wreaking from within
pain lodged in marrow,
a decade spent rotting
it burrows in my lungs
an unwelcome dweller
who has no home
branding seared into my sides
scorched skin festers and throbs
a decennium since the first burn
an invisible stain, a cursed tattoo,
caged and locked in a prison of bones
a wrench in my love
broken cogs and soot covered sprockets
a ten years deep wound
i don't know how to forget the fumes
embedded in my skin, stinging
sharp splinters piercing my psyche
just when i think i am done
i have searched by whole body
smothered every spark
there it is, again
thick smoke clinging to cotton
i cannot cleanse myself of you
your touch; my fear
singed skin where fingers slid
memory claws at my throat,
inside forever claimed
my body bathed and coated,
stomach-churning stench
wreaking from within
pain lodged in marrow,
a decade spent rotting
it burrows in my lungs
an unwelcome dweller
who has no home
branding seared into my sides
scorched skin festers and throbs
a decennium since the first burn
an invisible stain, a cursed tattoo,
caged and locked in a prison of bones
a wrench in my love
broken cogs and soot covered sprockets
a ten years deep wound
i don't know how to forget the fumes
Untitled
Pyper Saeler
it's always you
and never me
Why must that be?
i need that same joy
a fluttering,
with this just in,
the feeling of being pinned.
maybe i can't ever recieve it.
maybe i'm immune
but i'm fighting to not take the medicine--
from the spoon
it's purple and gooey,
darker than grapes
and made from all different shapes
God, i wish i was your shape.
simple, yet antique
graceful and well-spoken
and yet my voice always sounds slurred
i'm choking on my medicine
slipping down my throat,
becoming glued,
it's sticky, unable to be chewed.
it's that feeling of always being last
but you can't save me
it's every man for himself
after all, you'll drown too
in this sticky mess of envy that i've made for myself
it's caught in my throat
and there's no chance for escape
you are a fly and i'm the web,
stealing your life,
feeding off of your empathy.
listen, i'm sorry,
i'm sorry i feel this way,
sorry that i act this way,
but it's not going to change.
and never me
Why must that be?
i need that same joy
a fluttering,
with this just in,
the feeling of being pinned.
maybe i can't ever recieve it.
maybe i'm immune
but i'm fighting to not take the medicine--
from the spoon
it's purple and gooey,
darker than grapes
and made from all different shapes
God, i wish i was your shape.
simple, yet antique
graceful and well-spoken
and yet my voice always sounds slurred
i'm choking on my medicine
slipping down my throat,
becoming glued,
it's sticky, unable to be chewed.
it's that feeling of always being last
but you can't save me
it's every man for himself
after all, you'll drown too
in this sticky mess of envy that i've made for myself
it's caught in my throat
and there's no chance for escape
you are a fly and i'm the web,
stealing your life,
feeding off of your empathy.
listen, i'm sorry,
i'm sorry i feel this way,
sorry that i act this way,
but it's not going to change.
Justice Will Never be Enough
Jayme Moyer
If I am a descendent of ruthless killers,
The wrong among the world who cared so little,
Then kill me and end their traces left on this Earth
Of mass, unmarked, and forgotten graves.
We are children of vile, undeserving beasts
Whether swiftly or distantly, chosen or not.
The recent ends of my bloodline are soft and uncruel,
But somewhere in their veins lies that ancient blood
Who thirsted for glory and genocide,
Those generous with bloodied jewelry.
Clots grow in my vein’s streams with vengeance,
Yet I saw the unholy limbs off in eagerness.
When they trace drawings of murder among the floor,
I see I am just the same killer.
Though maybe it is all too little, too late,
I bury my arms and legs in an unmarked grave.
The wrong among the world who cared so little,
Then kill me and end their traces left on this Earth
Of mass, unmarked, and forgotten graves.
We are children of vile, undeserving beasts
Whether swiftly or distantly, chosen or not.
The recent ends of my bloodline are soft and uncruel,
But somewhere in their veins lies that ancient blood
Who thirsted for glory and genocide,
Those generous with bloodied jewelry.
Clots grow in my vein’s streams with vengeance,
Yet I saw the unholy limbs off in eagerness.
When they trace drawings of murder among the floor,
I see I am just the same killer.
Though maybe it is all too little, too late,
I bury my arms and legs in an unmarked grave.
Leaving
Haley Henry
What hits hardest is the realization,
the cementation of being sure.
You will have to fight with yourself
on this fact. Go rounds against your unstable
psyche. Curse him in your sleep.
Drown him in your mental pool
of anguish that they forced you to fill
with your own tears. Hold his head under
the water as he struggles against your hold
on the back of his neck. Pushing him down,
force feeding him his own mess
while all you feel is relief. You will have to
snuff him out to free yourself.
Leaving is the acceptance of your
Sure-ness. Learning how to run
is not cowardly; more often it is
the bravest thing you can do.
True love vs. relying on Latuda to keep
your tattered threads together.
You will struggle.
Despite it seeming the logical choice,
you’ve been brainwashed.
When you get far enough away
you will see. You were never attached to them,
but the idea of them you believed was true.
You will stumble through months
in a haze. Unsure of your own voice,
a hollowed-out soul that roams empty...
Your mother will tell you that
you aren’t the person she raised.
That will shatter you into thousands
of shards that you’ll slice yourself open on.
Looking through the carnage
for the you she’s lost.
You will find people who bring back
the light you thought was lost.
The vacuum of life will take it back
just a quick as its given.
You will claw and fight for happiness
that you know deep down you deserve.
Louder voices in your minefield mind
will tell you that you don’t. Sometimes
you’ll listen. When someone reminds you
of them you’ll be inexplicably enraged.
Your escape means you should never
have to stomach the thought of them again.
Once it goes under the carpet,
we never think of it again.
Like having no object permanence,
what a childish wish.
Though love and hate both take effort.
the cementation of being sure.
You will have to fight with yourself
on this fact. Go rounds against your unstable
psyche. Curse him in your sleep.
Drown him in your mental pool
of anguish that they forced you to fill
with your own tears. Hold his head under
the water as he struggles against your hold
on the back of his neck. Pushing him down,
force feeding him his own mess
while all you feel is relief. You will have to
snuff him out to free yourself.
Leaving is the acceptance of your
Sure-ness. Learning how to run
is not cowardly; more often it is
the bravest thing you can do.
True love vs. relying on Latuda to keep
your tattered threads together.
You will struggle.
Despite it seeming the logical choice,
you’ve been brainwashed.
When you get far enough away
you will see. You were never attached to them,
but the idea of them you believed was true.
You will stumble through months
in a haze. Unsure of your own voice,
a hollowed-out soul that roams empty...
Your mother will tell you that
you aren’t the person she raised.
That will shatter you into thousands
of shards that you’ll slice yourself open on.
Looking through the carnage
for the you she’s lost.
You will find people who bring back
the light you thought was lost.
The vacuum of life will take it back
just a quick as its given.
You will claw and fight for happiness
that you know deep down you deserve.
Louder voices in your minefield mind
will tell you that you don’t. Sometimes
you’ll listen. When someone reminds you
of them you’ll be inexplicably enraged.
Your escape means you should never
have to stomach the thought of them again.
Once it goes under the carpet,
we never think of it again.
Like having no object permanence,
what a childish wish.
Though love and hate both take effort.
Faceless
Nia Davis
It wore a face
And to that face there was a name
A name that would've meant nothing then
But means everything now
A name that I know as much as I know my own
A name that ended the same way it began
With a letter
And to that face there was a name
A name that would've meant nothing then
But means everything now
A name that I know as much as I know my own
A name that ended the same way it began
With a letter
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Icons made by Daniel Bruce, Bogdan Rosu, and Pedro Nieto Villamandos from www.flaticon.com