Author: fpoussin

Fabrice Poussin

Alicyn Harris

It is not her fault,
The way her feelings suffocate me
I drown in them,
But I know she is drowning too.
Walking on eggshells around her
So she doesn’t crack and spill
A single misstep and she would cry out
I was not perfect enough
Too messy
Too loud
Too thin
Too expensive
Her attempts to love me left me
Strangled, exhausted
And my heart hurts for her,
She doesn’t know any other way to love
I understand my mother,
But I cannot forgive her
Still, I keep going back
Because all I ever wanted was my mother’s love

Fabrice Poussin

Shelby Dobson

Dear Papa,

I used to be the happiest girl around when you were here. I was always optimistic, and I made the mood change for the better. After you left me, I changed. I vowed to never be that naive little girl. The one who thought you would never leave me. The girl you knew is dead and buried. I changed my hair, my style of clothing, and how I perceived the world. Everything about me had to change once you left. I needed to be a girl you’d never known so that the experience I feel now won’t feel stolen. Like I’m living the same life, just without you. It has to be different. It must be different. If I’m going to stay on this planet without you, it has to feel like an alternate universe, because now I can’t go anywhere without seeing you. You will forever haunt the death you committed. You were supposed to stay. You were meant to stay. But you left without a goodbye, taking your life in your own hands. Leaving me behind.

My only chance at a goodbye,

Your granddaughter

Natalie Tankersley

Writers are born,
shaking, squealing, and struggling to describe the world
they’ve been thrust into, sitting
on their grandfather’s knee, babbling, bumbling, and bouncing as stories pile up
in their heads, collecting
dust before they learn to
turn thoughts into ink

Writers are created,
whispering, waiting, and wondering about the things that
live in their heads, emerging
from the depths of nights alone, escaping, envying, and editing
their thoughts until
their hearts bleed, spilling
aching and raw onto
a blank page

Writers are forged,
hunching, hallucinating, and haunting over their desk with
hands on keyboards, begging
the words to come,
dragging, demanding, and daring writer’s block to stand
in their way, knocking
the walls to their creative
wellspring down

Alicyn Harris

Anna Thomas

my love for you is in persistent retrograde
the candle is being lit – the wick won’t ignite
the river is flowing yet never forms a cascade

removing the mask – never revealing the masquerade
the key is in the door – the lock is still tight
my love for you is in persistent retrograde

stepping out into the sun – still in the shade
the moon comes out – the sky isn’t bright
the river is flowing yet never forms a cascade

erasing the words – the lines never fade
the stars shine – the day still isn’t night
my love for you is in persistent retrograde

getting off the path – somehow never strayed
turning left – still heading right
the river is flowing yet never forms a cascade

fighting for your love to find out it was a game of charade
looking forward but keep on losing sight
my love for you is in persistent retrograde
the river is flowing yet never forms a cascade

Jesse Lee

Pinpricks of silver on black velvet,
scattered remains of last night’s
shattered moon.
A glowing beast,
a ball of light held in its mouth
as he stalks through the night.

The raiders of the sea
called him the torch of Loki,
guiding the mischievous god
to the land of mortals.

The ancients knew him as
Orion’s hunting companion,
following his master into death
to hunt the night dark west.

He gave his blessing to the archers,
His blood to the wolves,
His love to the lost,
an eternal fire against
the shadows.

He answers the howls
of his earthbound brothers
with a shimmering, silent dance,
burning brighter than all his celestial kin,
a wildfire among candles.

Caroline Lewis

I have long ago learned to fear
that when everything is sunny,
and I feel an unnatural calm,
a storm is brewing somewhere in the center,
so far away and so enormous
that I will not see it until it is upon me.
I have learned to walk in the rain for hours,
until the downpour forces me to flee
into the nearest house.

I have long ago learned
that the only safe house is mine.
That the only place that I truly know in those times is my mind.
That even when it is dark, I know the way around,
and I can feel the furniture,
and when the wind blows in,
at least the cracks in the walls are familiar.

But you—you contradict what I have learned,
when I thought I could not have
the beauty of the sea without the storm,
the fire of the sunset without the dark soon following.
You are like a warm day with sun and sky and breeze,
and true peace, for I know you will not
bring a storm, I know that we will not
create a tempest.
I know you are the fine line that I have been searching for,
wondering about, for years,
hope versus history.
I fear no storm brewing on the horizon,
and when I think of the unexpected squalls that will arise one day,
I know that we together
can walk, nay, dance through the rain.

And I know because you, everything with you, feels like a house I know well—
a home.
A house I have never set foot in,
yet when the lights are out,
I know my way in the dark,
and when the wind blows in, the cracks don’t matter—
you are here.

Ava O’Malley

Up early enough to remember autumn,
a mere threat just six weeks away,
we pounded down onto the gravel,
too cold beneath stiff towels to slow into a stroll.

We dove off the metal docks without thought,
our feet slipping off the swaying metal.
and disappeared into the lake like a chorus of raindrops
swallowed by waves, digested into our own spray.

It was too soon to be cognizant of our bodies,
pre-teen in faded one-pieces.
It did not matter what we looked like the dawn
of our corporeal conscientiousness.
Instead, we only knew what it felt like to be
freezing, kicking, restless;
Minnows shortly before the thaw.

Our hair quickly crisped when we emerged to gasp,
hands splashed the slate gray surface as a school
of sunburnt scalps greeted the flesh-pink sky.
We feared only the absence of one another
and perhaps the graze of a water snake that did not exist.

The sun broke like an egg as we squinted through damp lashes,
Desperately treading and drugged with adrenaline.
All loose braids and peeling skin and soggy friendship bracelets,
A voice called upon us,
“Who wants to jump again?”