Peace

Poem by Vanshika Srivastava

Sorry, my kin, 
My pocket is full of dimes 
Your bag of felicity had a stitch loose 
Since the very first time. 

The ray of hope can be blinding, 
And now the knock is heard at my door 
My hands tied behind, my plea refused 
That my pocket is just full of dimes 

And the hand that holds the gold 
is the hand that surfaces through 
amidst the crowd of the do’s and don’ts. 
With glee they measure their generosity 
With ease they gleam with their papercut smiles 

And henceforth I ran as far as I could, 
For as long as the hours prolonged, 
The sunset up by the bay 
Seemingly tarnished me with its golden ray 
And slowly I simmer down to a hasty stop. 
With a new thumping start, peace wrapped around me 
Like an old friend’s arms, 
Like the cup of coffee I have everyday 
yet still yearn for.

Old Habits Die Screaming

Memoir by alarminglytired 
CW: mentions of self-harm

I was twelve when the sterile shine of bathroom tiles became my reluctant canvas. I would crouch there, scrubbing furiously, the bristles of the brush scraping against the tiles as if I could erase the evidence of my internal struggles. Each stroke was a desperate attempt to cleanse not just the floor, but my soul—a futile effort to wash away the whispers of pain that echoed louder than any confession I could muster. 

“I have to make it spotless,” I would mumble to myself, my voice barely rising above the sound of running water. “If it’s clean, maybe I can pretend everything is okay.” I could hear my mother’s soft footsteps in the hall, oblivious to the tempest that brewed within me. It was easier to hide, to craft a façade of normalcy than to let anyone in. 

By thirteen, I became a master of deception, cloaking my scars under layers of feigned laughter and bright smiles. “Look at me!” I would shout, a little too loudly during lunch with my friends, their giggles like bubbles rising in the air, masking the heaviness in my chest. Inside, I felt like a marionette, strings pulled taut by secrets. I learned how to laugh without joy, how to nod at conversations while my mind drifted into darker territories, the shadows creeping ever closer. 

One afternoon, while flicking through channels, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the TV screen—eyes that seemed too old for my thirteen years, the corners of my mouth pulling upward when I wanted to cry. “What’s wrong with you?” I whispered, the question lingering like smoke in the air. It was a reminder that I was losing the battle, but even so, I hid it behind a mask of youthful exuberance. 

Seventeen arrived with an undeniable weight, a heavy stone dropped into the pit of my stomach. I stood at the edge of my own existence, watching as those old habits slithered back, like shadows stalking me through the dimly lit hallways of my mind. “You think you’re free?” they seemed to taunt, whispering sweet nothings that felt all too familiar. I’d glance at my reflection in the mirror, the pale lines etched into my skin whispering tales of battles fought in silence. “You’re not broken; you’re just… healing,” I would repeat, though sometimes, I didn’t believe it. 

Four years later, and the yearning flickered within me once again, like a candle’s flame flickering in a gust of wind. “You’re still alive,” I reminded myself as I traced the scars with trembling fingers, imagining reopening them, the rush of crimson staining my skin, a vivid splash against the monochrome of my existence. “But at what cost?” I questioned, feeling that old dread coil around my stomach, as if reminding me of the fear in strangers’ eyes when they glimpsed the truth beneath my skin. 

“Just hold on,” I whispered to myself, the words barely escaping my lips as I stood there, caught between the past and the present. The pull of the blade was strong, an old friend hidden among forgotten books, gleaming with a pristine promise. “You know what relief feels like,” it seemed to say, seducing me with the illusion of escape. I could see it, beautiful and terrible, glinting like a siren’s call. 

But at that moment, I knew what I had to do. “No,” I said firmly, shaking my head as if to dispel the dark thoughts. I walked towards the bathroom, every step heavy with resolve, my heart pounding in my chest. 

With a swift motion, I threw it away, severing the thread that bound me to that dark past. A small victory, perhaps, but a powerful one. “Sometimes, the most genuine act of rebellion is choosing to be whole,” I reminded myself, feeling the weight begin to lift. Here, in this moment, I was not broken; I was healing. I stood before the mirror, and for the first time in a long while, I dared to smile, the reflection staring back at me filled with hope—a fragile but real thing. I am not broken, I am healing.

Grief

Personal Essay by Gi Buelow
CW: mentions of death

Life is never what you think it is going to be. 

“That’s the beauty of it,” your mom would say with a slight gleam in her eye. “The unpredictability is what makes life worth living.” 

I disagree. 

The unpredictability is harmful. It is pain. It is a freight train barreling towards you, full speed and not braking, and while you have the choice to move, you do not have the time. 

One moment, you’re finishing up your last few homework assignments, and the next, you’re hugging your crying mom, who just hung up with your nana. You’re asking her, “What happened?”

She utters two words: “Grandpa’s dying.” 

At first, it doesn’t hurt; you feel no pain. Maybe you’re in denial, forcing your emotions away like you always seem to do. Or perhaps you just don’t believe it; yes, he is old, but he can’t be dying, not yet. Either way, you feel guilty. Guilty for not feeling anything, guilty for not being torn apart. Guilty for the fact that his dying never seems to hit you. It doesn’t hit you while you stand there holding your mom, or while you drive to the doctor, or during the half-hour appointment, or even on the drive home. But then you get home, and suddenly, everything falls apart. Suddenly, you’re watching yourself from an outside perspective, like your own life is some sort of twisted movie. Suddenly, you’re in your room pacing, crying… alone. Your mom is gone, saying goodbye to a man you’ll never see again; she left without you. He’s leaving without you, and you don’t even get a chance to say goodbye.

He’s nothing but a memory now. A memory of when you were twelve, sitting in a classroom, listening to a teacher ask if any of the class knew someone who had fought or been involved in World War II. Telling us we should ask them about it. You know your great-grandfather fought when he was young, in his twenties you think. Excitedly, you raise your hand, say, “My grandpa fought in the war. I can ask him about it.” 

Then there you are, a month later, far past that topic in school, but your curiosity is piqued anyway. So you ask him about it, and your grandpa smiles. He tells you about how he enlisted and was in the Navy. How he spent nights on boats, talking to his friends. How when he saw a dead man for the first time, he prayed for them. 

You’re not religious, but you pray now. There’s no getting better for him anymore; he has given up, but you pray that he lasts one more day—just one more, so you can say your goodbyes. So you can hear his voice one more time, see his smile one more time, so you can spend your last moments with him memorizing the feel of his hugs. You pray for him to go somewhere happy, even though you are not sure you fully believe in it. Because there’s always a chance, and just in case it’s real, you want to help him get there.

He doesn’t live another day. You lost your chance to say goodbye because you had to stay home with your brother. He’s “too young to see that,” you were told. You will never be able to say goodbye. He’s gone. Forever. And you’re mad. Your mom got to say goodbye, your nana got to say goodbye, even your step-dad got to say goodbye; but you couldn’t. And briefly, you resent your mom for this. Your last chance to see him was taken from you, ripped from your grasp almost as quickly as water slipping through your fingers. You’re mad because when things finally started to look up, you had to lose him. You’re mad because this isn’t fair; it can’t be fair. You’re a good person. Why should you have to suffer? You’re mad because you can’t stop yourself from crying in class. Because you miss him, you’re tired, and you didn’t get to say goodbye. 

But you hate being angry. You hate that your brain is constantly reminding you he’s gone. So you push it away. You tell yourself it’s not real. None of this is real; it can’t be real. He’s not gone, not truly. He can’t be. 

He can’t be. 

On Friday, you’ll see him. You’ll drive to the nursing home and visit him and your grandma. You’ll get a new book recommendation from him, and you’ll give him a new one as well. You’ll tell him about life and school and your brothers. He’ll tell you all the stories he’s told you a million times before, but you’ll still listen because it makes him happy. On Friday, he’ll be normal and he’ll be healthy. He’ll be alive. 

Except now it’s Friday, and none of that has happened. It’s Friday, and he’s not healthy, he’s not alive, and absolutely nothing is normal. It’s Friday, and he’s still gone; he’s always been gone. His room is empty: eerily devoid of life. It’s confusing because your grandma still lives here, but without both of them, without him, it doesn’t feel the same. Nothing truly feels the same. You sit in this half-empty room, your grandma to the right of you watching The Golden Bachelor, and you remember.

You remember visiting during holidays, a second-story apartment, a seemingly never empty Fudgsicle box in the freezer, a big jar of hard candies—except not the good ones, the banana ones that no one ever liked, but they were always there—an envelope with cash during birthdays, chocolate bunnies during Easter. The little things that never seemed to matter appear so significant now and… tinted. They seem tinted with a deep shade of blue. Grief. You miss him. But you don’t feel as bad as you did before. 

It’s a sort of closure, perhaps. To visit this place that is no longer his place could be all you needed—some time to say goodbye. It doesn’t feel good, but you don’t feel as bad. Maybe the shock has worn off; maybe you’re finally starting to accept the fact that life isn’t forever, that it was inevitable. And as much as it hurts, it wouldn’t have hurt any less if it had happened at any other time. 

So this is how you say goodbye, with tears in your eyes, your heart in your stomach, and an odd feeling of comfort. You remind yourself that he was ready to go; he was at peace with it, so you’ll learn to be at peace with it, too. You’ll hold on to the necklace with his ashes and the desk you now have that used to be his. You’ll hold on to the memories and the moments. You’ll hold on to the love you felt when you were around him. You’ll be sure that everyone around you feels the love he gave you. You’ll hold on to all of this; you’ll teach yourself to be okay. You will be okay. 

You will hold on to his legacy. The legacy that you are a part of. You will hold on to him through fudge pops, and banana candies, and books, and pinky promises, and any time World War II or the navy is mentioned, and when you think of Italy or Sicily, and in the way he loved, and in the way he made people smile. You will hold on to the pictures. You will think of him every time Halloween comes around and every time April comes as well. You will remember family parties, and visits, and helping him move into assisted living, then again into a room with extra care.

He was the first family member you were close to that you lost. So, you will have regrets, of course. Regrets about not asking more about being first generation. Regrets about not writing down his stories, because you know that as time passes, your memory of his stories will fade. Your memories of him will fade. But these regrets will teach a lesson. A lesson to hold on tight to those you love, to those who love you. A lesson to cherish every moment you have. It is painfully clear to you, that even in death you’ve still learned something from him. Perhaps that will be his legacy: the lessons you learn after his passing. You thank him for that, even if you can’t do it face to face. You love him; he loved you. Through all of this, you learned to say goodbye. And even though it is hard, it will be okay again. You will be okay again. I will be okay again.

Pink

Poem by Hailey Jiang
TW: Allusion to sexual trauma.

Butterscotch candies and white lace
A cloudy evening outside
He invites you to his place
He shares ripe cherries, tangy juice dripping down your chin
Admires the pink lace to keep your hair out of your face

Brush your hair and get your beauty sleep
What a beautiful mind and kind soul
Sugar and spice and everything nice
Your muliebrity shines gold
The world stretches in front of you
A scarlet sunset
Endless possibilities and what has not come yet

And perhaps that is the most dangerous white lie,
That the scarlet sunset is beautiful and when it is not,
It is covered by the white clouds in the sky.
That the lace your mother gave to you
Was pink when she was young,
That pink is the beauty of 
Mature womanhood and innocent girlhood wrapped in one.

Hard scotch and Shirley Temple,
A dizzying mosaic of red and white,
Red staining white, 
His ring on your finger, you’re trapped
In the dizzying haze of your mind.

The clouds start to clear
As you run frantically into the scorching red sunset.
White lace stuffed in your pocket,
Cherry juice dripping down the inside of your legs,
Staining the lace that you will regret
Giving your daughter
Pink.

Inertia

Poem by Joanna Deng

When my Ma tells me inertia is a law
so that means it can be broken,
I watch her well-worn tongue slip across her teeth
like how I watch the little snakes in our garden
seek shelter in whatever small things they see.

That night, as two little serpents escape
into the traffic-light-lined streets,
I chase the slower one
that always ends up shivering
in a direction back home.

So when, one day,
my Ma hands me a rifle
and tells me to cock it at the bushes in our garden
where the homesick snakes are sleeping and the Americans can’t see,
I try to explain to her the word ricochet,

how an object’s direction will change
if you hit it against something hard enough.

I try to explain to her
how her IV is drooling,
or how she should head back to bed,
but she is insistent on finding anything alive
and claiming them as her own

like how in her motherland, she grew used
to stealing quail eggs or hatchlings each morning—
and it was all okay
as long as no one found out.

A few years later, when my Ma asks me
if there are still snakes
in the backyard,
I peel her the last of our sticky mandarins,
tap the few-year-old bullet wound beneath my rib,
and tell her

she’s found them
and stolen them all.
Slippery, slick little things,

like her words—
diced
and vomited—
by the time she learns
that inertia is a law
but it’s more like a habit.

Once you’re in it
you never get out.

Fame

Poem by Vanshika Srivastava

How is it that it was I, 
she thought, who fell from grace, 
while the sot who arranged the facade 
was berated, yet still the very great? 

The pin failed to drop on his uncanny schemes. 
They chanted in front of the staged display 
that the dreaded was she. 
“Glistening was her charm and her stealth,” they said. 
Honourable treat was she to the children, 
whose misdemeanours were labelled her very own 
reflection. And what more is hidden: his slinking tricks 
that puppeteered everyone right through it. 

Just a scream, shattering the upheld belief. 
Over twinkled wine and cherry-topped cakes, 
her lies were truths, hidden, to keep herself safe. 
But held out were their hands, the misters’ and misses’, 
to the wisps of one man’s promises. 
And he, the wicked, just smiled. 
As auburn hair did cascade down her bare state, 
so she fell from favour with his lies and fame.

I have forgotten

Poem by Zo Navarro

the way sunlight seeps through thin white curtains / during still mornings / how water dances from the spout to the ground in park fountains / and sweet afternoons shared among rinds of ripe fruit bitten in the palms offered from friends. / or lusting / for a life gone in a dream two full moons ago / unrecalled beyond that of a negative image transposed over an echo. / gone from my practice the methodical drift of eyelids / when tirelessness is replaced by sleepiness / how to count the sheep / jumping the fence as the night bids / darkness.

i have forgotten. / i have forgotten. / could not find muscle memory, either. / i am mistaken. / i want us to dream and be together. / i do not want to wake up grief-stricken / and a stranger.

15 Writing Prompts to Help Your Writing

Guide by Anam Tariq

Poets are on the lookout for new and unique prompts to inspire their latest writing projects. Prompts do often lead to some really impressive pieces. So here are 15 prompts for you. Those that are hyperlinked, are taken from other sources. Enjoy!

1. Begin your poem with a question. The following lines should contain an answer to that question. 

2. Write a self-portrait.

3. Write a haiku with the word “distill” in it.

4. Write a 100-word poem about hope. Don’t include the word “hope” in it.

5. Write a poem formatted along a timeline.

6. Look into the history of a place important to you and write about it.

7. Write a list poem.

8. Write a poem on “sisterhood”.

9. Present a portrait of your city in words.

10. Use the four seasons as metaphors in four 5-line cinquains. 

11. Write a visual/concrete poem on a nature-based theme.

12. Take some inspiration from these phrases – lemons and lavender, rooted resilience, all the sweetest things.

13. Begin your piece with this line: The air falls heavy on the heart…..

14. Write a prologue to your poetry collection.

15. Write a piece using the words – indisposition, grouchy, outdoors, green.