By Cassie Cardenas, a 16 year old Student at Kinder High School for the Performing and Visual Arts Houston, Texas.

Tears Reek, From My Pink Laced Pillow Case.

(Watery Eyes)

Much obliged to my pink laced pillowcase propped;

Upon my headboard

As much as I use you for my rest,

I'm sure that you could use a break too.

Much obliged the way you catch the drips of my tears

Then gather them inside your cotton cloth

It always seems to take away my throbbing affliction;

During the late hours of those midnight mornings.

(Dripping Down)

Much obliged to the sweat and oil you ingest

Because I'm just too unable to turn the faucet on.

If I were you I'd vigorously throw up

My forbidden human sap already.

Much obliged to when you act as my comfort when

It feels as if everyone has turned;

Their arching backs on me, and I lay waiting For some type of consoling or assurance.

(Wet Spot)

Much obliged for your calmness when I scream

Into you and rupture your eardrums

For it would be a burden to do it out in the open

And risk people judging me more.

Much obliged to my pink-laced pillowcase,

To the structure, you give my spine to

Being the replacement of a person when I hug you

You are the thing that makes me feel

less torn.

By Wasif-Ur-Rehman,

"This is a poem that celebrates the beauty and magic found in the ordinary moments of life. It captures the essence of the treasuring the simple joys, like savoring a cup of coffee, feeling the warmth of sunlight, or hearing the laughter of loved ones. The poem invites readers to embrace these everyday experiences and find wonder in the seemingly mundane. It reminds us that these moments lie the true treasures of life.”

“I wrote this poem because I believe in the power of appreciating the beauty in everyday life. Sometimes, we get caught up in the hustle and bustle, and we forget to notice the small moments that bring us joy. I wanted to remind myself and others to slow down, be present, and find enchantment in the simple things. Life is made up of these precious moments, and by cherishing them, we can find happiness and fulfillment."

In the quiet dawn, as sunlight streams,

A symphony of moments, in between.

The laughter shared, a gentle touch,

The magic found in moments, oh so much.

A cup of coffee, warm and sweet,

The melody of footsteps on the street.

The scent of rain upon the earth,

A child's giggle, full of mirth.

A handwritten note, with love imbued,

The dance of shadows, in solitude.

The taste of chocolate on eager lips,

The feeling of a lover's fingertips.

In these simple moments, we find delight,

The beauty hidden in plain sight.

For life's true treasures, often unseen,

Lie within the moments that make us gleam.

So let us cherish each passing day,

Embrace the magic in every way.

For in the ordinary, we shall find,

A world of wonder, one of a kind.

By Bella Giammalvo, a Los Angeles-based student writer. 

She’s fond of pretty trinkets, the ocean at night, and lots of Lana Del Ray. Her writing illuminates the clash where future meets present, in an attempt to understand the struggle between support and intervention, self and other, and love and loss. Bella is a member of The 309 Collective, a group of young California poets, writers, musicians, and artists, as well as the host of NExt Line Open Mic, a teens-only open mic celebrating young artists. Her work can be found on Cultural Daily and The 309 Collective. 

The rain pours overhead/ and I have forgotten how to say her name/ in the rush of water that floods my boots/ that promises to drown/ my mother calls out from her bed/ I tell her I love her/ and she meets my gaze to say/ I do not believe you/ so I let the rains come/ batter against my skin in lunar tides/ in the sky swells of mud/ rise to coat my tongue/ lick it clean on the lightness of pretty compliments/ against the mirror/ sweet and cold/ and when I sit back/ watching the little girl who watches me/ who watches me/ her hair long/ braided with ribbons/ and her cheeks are bright with blood flush/ not yet blemished/ not yet broken/ I can tell she’s about to run away/ barefoot on the wet concrete/ her toes squish into mud/ made of butterfly wings/ so I say her name/ once forgotten/ then on my lips/ then thrown into the thrashes of a storm/ unforgiving/ and I tell her I love her/ and she meets my gaze to say/ I do not believe you/ I kiss her throbbing head/ pet her soft hair/ and whimper doves shot midair/ I do not believe you 

By Emma Xiao, a Bellaire High School student in Houston, Texas.

“An ode to my head."

Why is there a spider living inside my head?

There it goes, making the webs of its stead

I try to shake it out, but its pincers won’t let

It holds on even tighter and creates its own bed

Stop, I yell, but the crawly creature won’t listen

It smirks and smiles, and its abdomen glistens

The sticky sheets creep over my eyes

And I shout, Are you satisfied

But no, the spider taunts

Streaming traps of wishes and wants

Hey, I scream, because enough is enough

You’re filling my noggin with bits of fluff

My frames of focus are falling and failing

Get out of me, I am willing and wailing

The insect grows darker and way out of reach

Please cease your spinnings, I implore and beseech

Showers of legs quiet, and I’m relieved

It spoke, I’m not terrible, as you conceive

I might just be misplaced, 

But don’t go on erasing

Me, it hurried on

I can be useful. Useful? I scoff

Yes, used for another purpose

For something you may not think of

To tug dreams out of thin air

Weave inspirations into aspirations

Warm you with the greatest vest ever made

A vestigial vest, yes I like the sound of that

A remnant that you will bring with you

For the rest of your days

A good luck charm to be tucked and untucked

Are you done? I ask dismayed 

Quite, it managed, and I ushered it out

Not before it gazed longingly at the mess it created

It destructively created, in my head no less

What wonder, it whispered, eyes wandering

Truly, I thought, but watching galaxies gather in all eight,

I say not unkindly, I will take care of it

The hulking weaver weeps stars

Leaving its creations hanging

By Ghosty (she/her),  an aspiring writer who writes the things in her mind that demand to be written. She likes writing about love, heartbreak, and her own identity. "Dear confidence" is a letter addressed to one of her biggest insecurities and a step in the journey to overcome it. 

“I read this piece out loud for a poetry reading – and being someone who suffers from social anxiety & stage fright, you could say I needed a lot of 'confidence' for that”

Dear confidence,

Before you crumple this letter up and throw it away, read ‘till the end. Because this is your last warning. I’m filing a restraining order tomorrow. This time, it’s a promise. 

I wouldn’t have to resort to this if you’d listened, if you’d look me in the eye. I used to be afraid of the monster under my bed. Now I listen to you listening to me dreaming until your flesh festers and soaks the dust bunnies. 

Remember when we first met? I was on the swings while you clung to my ankles. I thought you didn’t want me to get hurt. In reality, you didn’t want me to escape the clutches of gravity. Ever since then, you haven’t left my side. 

Seriously, you’re obsessed with me. 

Why do you watch me? Why do you wear your emerald raincoat? I hate the color. Emerald tears stain the night sky and when they fall, it paints me the aurora borealis, a deathless chromatogram of lost dreams.

Stop giving me blood to bleed when I bite my lip or pinch my skin too hard. Watch my flesh burn and fester in your words, expired ink marinating my bones until they’re fermented enough to devour. 

Can you put your hand against the mirror sometimes? I find it hard to imagine your existence when I can’t see beyond the lipstick smears. 

In truth, I guess I need you. I guess I miss you. I guess I want you too much for you to understand me anymore. 

But if you asked me. I’m still filing that restraining order. This time, it’s a promise. 

By Aarna Parimi, a student at Purdue University, Illinois 

She sets the two coffee cups down in front of her. Hers is a mocha with whipped cream and a light dusting of nutmeg, the same way it always had been. He took black coffee with milk. He refused to touch the sugar, and he’d always dart away with the cup whenever she tried to add sugar.

“How can you drink that?” She cried. “It tastes like markers.”

“I already have caffeine,” He protested. “I don’t need sugar too.”

She looks up from the table as the bell from the coffee shop door jingles. He searches the room, and smiles when he sees her. It’s been three months. He'll tell her he misses the way her eyes crinkle when she laughs, the way her hair felt on his cheek, the perfection of her eyebrows.

the same lines every time.

“Tesoro,” He says as he sits down. She never understood the nickname. Neither of them were Italian; neither of them spoke Italian either. Although she had been to Venice before, the closest he had ever come to Italian culture was drinking an espresso when they watched The Godfather in her apartment.

“Hello.” She refuses to let her face betray her emotions. She doesn’t want him to know what she has planned. She pushes his coffee towards him, and he smiles and thanks her. 

“You always remember my order,” he says.

“You used to leave your coffee receipts on your desk in class.” she responds. “I saw them every day.”

“Well,” he says, placing his hand on hers. “I’m glad someone cares enough.”

She wants to pull her hand away. She’s disgusted by him suddenly. It’s easier to hate him like this, when he’s not smiling, but simply staring at her, studying her features. She can focus on the lines on his face, the parts of his hair that shine gray in the light, the dark brown of his eyes. They were so dark, that had always freaked her out. She would look at him in the dark, and get lost in his eyes. They were an abyss, waiting to take her into another nightmare.

She couldn’t take it anymore. She’s looking at him. It’s a distraction, of course, as she pulls her hand away from his. 

“I’m done..”

His eyes betray his emotions. He’s livid. Of course. He was always angry at her. After six years with him, she couldn’t remember the times when he had actually done something nice for her just because he wanted to. It was always an apology. Flowers for lashing out at her, candy for pushing her more than she could handle. She still had the vase for that time he threw her coffee mug on the ground in anger when they watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. 

“What do you mean?” He asks in a controlled tone. That’s a first, she thinks to herself. But now is not the time.

Not for her, at least. He begins rambling, like he always does.

“We’ve been together for six years, I know you better than-”

“Where did we first meet?” she cuts him off. She’s done denying the truth. She asks again

“School, obviously. You were in eighth grade. We didn’t start dating until later, though.” He’s forgetting the most important part. She remembers, obviously. He would glance at her as she stood in the risers, he’d make sure she got the solo, he convinced the main band director to make her the president of the music honor society.

She should’ve quit the class after she fulfilled the credits, but He had convinced her otherwise. He’d picked out the music based on what she had suggested. He’d let her sister play a violin accompaniment at a state competition because she had asked. He even nominated her for a national scholarship that she ended up winning.

No wonder everyone else in the band had hated her. She hated herself.

“Are you moving?” He asks. This is the only thing in his mind that could make her stop loving him, the only thing that could make this relationship end. She’d ended things when she went to college, and came back crying to him a month later. She ruined those four years for him. She could’ve gone to Julliard. She could’ve walked right into Atlantic Records and dropped out of college and won a Grammy. He could have lived in her acceptance speech instead of their old shoebox of an apartment. He moved out after four months. She followed a year later.

At least she had finished college. That was the one thing she didn’t let herself throw away for He, and she would forever be grateful that she had mustered up the courage to do this one thing. To have some control over her life.

But this relationship’s end had been coming for a long time. It should have never happened in the first place. From the after-school snacks while she waited for her mother, to the one-on-one lessons, to the moments in dark practice rooms. Somehow, she thought she was in charge

It was all a lie.

“I’m not moving. I just don’t want this anymore.” She kept her voice calm, so he couldn’t figure out what she was thinking. “I shouldn’t have ever been with you.” He flinches, and she’s oddly satisfied. He should feel hurt, especially after everything he did to her.

“You know I’m the same age you were when we met each other?” She studies his face, looking for any reaction as she continues. “I go back to the school sometimes to pick up my cousins. I never would do what you did. I could never see that”

“I didn’t-”

“It doesn’t matter if you didn’t do anything until my senior year, He.” she says, exasperated. “You couldn’t start feeling all of that in one day.” 

She misses her childhood, the years when she used to enjoy choir because of the friends she had, not because of He’s glances at her. She deserves to mourn.

“I hope you find someone who doesn’t give up everything for you.” A lie. She doesn’t care about him anymore. “I deserved better.” I deserved a childhood.

He opens his mouth to respond. She’s not finished. 

“Maybe part of it was my fault. I should’ve known what you were trying to do to me, especially when I got older. But you should’ve just worked your 9-5 and left me alone. You can claim that you were trying to motivate me, but we both know that’s not true.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you in any way, but you should know you hurt me more in any month of our relationship than I hurt you in the whole six years. 

Now for the hard part. She can leave him behind. She can’t promise he’ll be better.

“I hope you don’t do this to anyone else, but I think we both know it doesn’t work like that. Everyone deserves something real. I deserved that. And I’ll find it eventually, but not with you.”

She’s sick of the lies. Sick of the excuses.

He’s saying something to her in a lowered voice, but she’s not going to listen to his apologies. Not anymore. Some people in the coffee shop are staring at him, wondering why he’s so frantic. She pulls out thirty dollars from her bag and places them on the table. She waves at a nearby waitress and hands her the money.

“Keep the change,” she says, grabbing her bag. As the waitress leaves, she turns and kisses his cheek. It’s a quick kiss, the kind she’d give to a friend after a long-awaited reunion. But it’s also cold, without feeling She doesn’t care what happens to him, not anymore. She doesn’t care if he begs her to come back. She’s finally free. 

“Goodbye,” she whispers. She walks towards the door and opens it. The doorbell’s jingle is cut off as she closes the door quickly, and walks away. She closes her eyes and breathes in the city. She opens her eyes and, after six long years, takes a step forward.

By Gian Delos Reyes, a new writer in the realm of creative writing and a senior high school student from a university in the Philippines.

"Beleaguered in Love is a poem that resonates with the yearning to love someone, yet those past, painful relationships await us back. The feeling of fear to love someone while anticipating that they will come and go is painful, as it seems, and can traumatize you afterwards."

Imbued in subtle growth, nuanced below my throat,

There it resides within my heart, 

Benignly pounding all the veins that were sown,

I'm harbored with a mind swirling in crimson hues,

While I glimpse you in the corner of your shadow.

I would fondly trap you

In the vast expanse of the void,

Somewhere far;

Somewhere distant, beyond where my vision can scope.

Yet, it seems stubbornly inherent,

As if your vanity is fated to be seen,

And I find myself imprisoned within those eyes,

My neck slaughtered by a thousand glances.

I behold you like a siren, bewitched,

My eyes anchored to the character I perceive,

Entangled in every dimension where you’d be.

But why do I fear the feeling you fostered? 

Why do I hate this tethered affinity for bridled love? 

I long to cradle your face bestowed by the celestial angels of heaven.

I would dare to yell the majesty that you are. 

I would chase your hand amidst the thunderous rain,

Protecting you like a saint of pain.

I'm willing to bleed just so your voice stays 

Within the chambers of my ear.

Yet, here I am…with a tear upon my face.

Suddenly, I find myself beside my weathered clock,

Desperately attempting to turn its hands back.

Memories of the past invade my thoughts,

Those doomed relationships begin to butcher

The sanctuary of my mind.

The stinging embrace of hushed loneliness,

The dearth of bliss,

And the tormenting ache gradually engulf me once more.

The smile I plastered every Monday

Turns into the tears that cascade every Friday.

And as I hereby look at you once again,

All I could think of are the smoldering scars,

Leaving me petrified of loving anew,

For I reside in a cosmos

Where the painful past relentlessly follows me back.

By Olivia Burgess, an 18 year old world chef raised and residing near London, UK. Soon to embark on an English degree at King's College London, her poetry typically focuses on her raging internal conflicts, her muse, and the inextricable relationship between nature and humanity. She has been published in over 20 micro press avenues, and she hopes you take care of yourself today. 

"This poem comes from a hopefully ubiquitous experience of sitting in your bedroom after a typical teenage party, maybe slightly intoxicated, questioning everything about yourself, your personality, your behaviour, and constantly overthinking about how you might be perceived after that fateful night. Certainly with different types of people in attendance, one arrives home thinking just how they might have come across if they said, acted or performed a little differently."

In the end, 

I’m sitting on my bed at half midnight, post-Cinderella story

waiting for my face to cool down. Converse toppling in a pile 

in the corner with soles manicured to an almond acrylic point

and a spaghetti strap top melding part alcohol stain part manically applied 

deodorant. How five hours ago I hovered my hand over a doorbell, 

in mere seconds simultaneously regretful and absolved;

this cardinal sin of wavering self confidence. Goodnight, routine:

scrubbing my face in the near dark, in the same half arsed way 

a bear scratches its back against a stump, splinters of 

eyelashes, glitter caught as dusty strays bedazzling my eyebrows. 

Remembering how I wish I could have said more, smiled more, 

lowered my volume, played along better, 

be the woman of personality upheaval. The final decree of girlhood is portraying 

the pinnacle of interesting, how to make up a new name, 

how to lie about your age

as a joke but no-one laughs. How to test material like a

secret comic at a village bar. How to bury the linger of 

launching full throttle into a glass of meaningful, but 

I’m going inside, I’m cold, I’ll see you later.

If you’re ever by the sea again, sometimes in the very 

delicate median of the night, the moon will split the water 

like a mint leaf in late summer, so rasped, so minute, 

vomiting a pocket of stars, and you’ll be left staring, staring, 

staring at the way midnight reflects so politely on a face, just a kiss 

of light to make that glow last. Then maybe 

someone has a headstart on those stars in the guest toilet. 

By Nurinsyirah Hawa 

When he died

A part of me dies too

When he was buried

My heart was buried with his

He loved purple,

And for years

 there was nothing purple in the house 

He  was the better child

He got people wishing,

It was me instead

Laying within the soil 

And when I've lost my grip

 I saw no marks 

 From my clawed fingers

That I used to hold myself

So when he died that day

A part of me lives

By Alcashmira Sumawiganda

Let the leaves fall, my love,

And let colors fade away.

Nobody wants a false siren,

No room for make-believe in the market.

Serenade your blues, read your books,

Paint your nails in burgundy hue.

The year may have been forlorn, but let it crumble in ruins,

For the season approaches when your heart speaks fluently.

The season that welcomed you,

The season that welcomed love,

And the season that reconciles fate,

Like coffee, its addiction and its bitter taste.

Just like your lover's favorite, cinnamon,

And the favorite scent fresh from the oven,

Vanilla and cashmere wood in a fragrance,

And a flavor that calls to mind the warmth of home.

By Luicien, a student in 11th grade.

My tutor’s voice was ramming in my head, pulsating like lungs. “The perfume in your eyes is too pungent. I can smell Austen mixing inside Van Gogh’s sky. This is supposed to be Chopin!”

“Do you want to know which artist’s power parallels yours?” My friend asked, laughing. 

I had just headed back from art class. We had to do weaving today. Sewing Mozart’s quavers into Van Gogh’s moonlit pools made tears well in my eyes. The rosin falling as snowflakes kept making me sneeze. 

“I’m pretty sure no great artist would be as bad as me,” I laughed, blinking away the reflections of the dissonance which still gleamed in my eyes.

“Don’t be so humble,” my friend, Olive, said again. “You’ve been training to be an artist for over 11 years. How bad could you be?”

“Anyway…” Olive brought out a full-body mirror. “Let's see for yourself how ‘bad’ you really are.”

“Oh come on,” I laughed reluctantly, “you already know how… talented I am.” It took me a hard swallow to finish the sentence. “Why would you have me mirrored to show my prowess?”

“Come on! You’re no fun!” She said. “Let’s see what historical figure was reborn as you.”

Olive shoved us both inside the mirror. An icy sensation clung to me before slithering out. It didn’t leave until the last chill latched away from the tips of my hair. 

As if my shadow had taken form, melting like a waxen copy, another figure stood a hundred feet before me. 

We were an audience apart. She stood on the stage, with the same height, hair and face as me. The only difference was that she had a blindfold on. Maybe that was her style of performance. Maybe she was blind. We stood behind the audience, the farthest of the bunch. They clapped and wooed as the stage blossomed with fireworks. The ponds reflected birdsong, weaving through Chopin’s semiquavers.

“See I was right,” Olive said, beaming at me. “That’s Myrtle who’s performing. The mirror doesn’t lie. You perform as beautifully as she does.”

I forced a guilty grin. “Of course.”

“You’ve certainly improved. Texture takes a long time to build,” my teacher said, leafing through the misplaced tendrils of my interpretation of Jane Austen’s novels. 

Five minutes to go.

I nodded.

Fingering through my untrimmed mass of synonyms and chess pieces, they conjoined in a flat vibrato. I hoped he didn’t see all this in my interpretation. 

I crossed my fingers as he commented again, “It’s difficult to weave with finesse. It takes reading the brushstrokes… Learning the chords by heart…”

My breathing relaxed. None of these words arrowed under my skin.

“Your past teachers certainly never paid much attention to this side.”

My heart sank. 

“You see, what makes a child a true artist with real talent, is finesse…”

“At this point in time I’ll just have to guide you through it every step of the way. There’s not enough time for you to develop it on your own.”

Myrtle’s performance shot fairy tales as big as rubies from her fingertips, falling like flowers from the stage. The audience roared and applauded.

“At your age, I can only advise you to improve these pieces’ textures…” my teacher’s voice echoed in my head.

Syllables interlocked with phoenix feathers. “Myrtle has really outdone herself with improvisation this time!” My friend said, gesturing towards Myrtle, still blind-folded. She stood at the centre of the stage, casting the same finger movements as I did.

“It’d take too long for you to completely learn it all over again.”

The entire audience erupted in applause. “That’s her, mirrored! Right there!” My friend shouted, gesturing at me. Some of the crowd gazed back at us in awe.

“At such a young age!” A couple in front of me gasped.

“Oh I’m nothing.” I forced a laugh. 

“Of course you aren’t!” My friend laughed.

“One of the only things separating a child from a prodigy is great texture. And you, do not have such quality.”

I lost my smile. “Yes, I am literally nothing.”

“She’s really humble for a genius!” Olive defended, glowering at the audience. “I do love having a genius as a friend!” She cast a warning glance at me.

“How long have you been learning?” A stranger asked, his eyes wide with shock.

“11 years.” Guilt throbbed in my head. The lack of redness in the whites of my eyes would have probably shown that I had not been practising enough. The mirror had clearly made a mistake.

“Oh you know, maybe let’s go home. I am tired of all this attention—”

“I haven’t even started playing Wilde yet at this age! I had only just passed my Austen Exams at your age!” He replied again. “You’re truly a genius!”

“I know you clearly don’t have the tone, texture, or accuracy to even deserve the name of a genius… are you sure you really passed Rowling’s Test?”

“Oh,” I chuckled. “Austen was a hard one for me…”

“You’re too humble!” A girl poked in. “Austen is the easiest module!”

“What’s with this ruckus?” A security guard butted in. “Myrtle is preparing for her next set.” 

“Let’s go, Olive.” I dragged her away towards the windowed door, glancing at the guard gratefully. I avoided staring into other people’s faces for too long, lest the dissonance in my eyes get reflected. 

“You’ll come back next week right?”

5 steps to go.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Hey!” Olive wrenched her hand from mine. “When will you learn?”

4 steps.

“Learn what?” I avoided her gaze. My heart thumped in my chest as cold sweat trickled down my neck. 

2 steps.

“Learn to be confident enough?”

“Oh…” I avoided her gaze. “Oh, you know… I have stage fright.”

“You should perform with Myrtle!” She shouted, gesturing towards me, “Myrtle! Myrtle! Wait!”

“No, Olive!”

She went to the front of the auditorium, chasing after Myrtle who the curtains had already half-covered. In the distance, Myrtle’s chest heaved a shorter breaths the closer Olive’s footsteps came crashing towards her.

“You should perform with my dear friend! She’s just as talented as you!”

“No!” I shouted at her. The entire crowd gazed at me and back at Myrtle again. The blindfold’s knot tied behind Myrtle’s head gave a shake as she shot her head at Olive’s direction. 

“Yes, yes! Definitely!” Myrtle nodded in vigou, almost as if in relief. She smiled after her breaths evened out again, raising her head in my direction.

“Prodigy, I heard you are.”

That night, back home, the same twisted monsters peeled from my dissonant mind. Ice cold fingers interlaced with a mirror’s surface. Only when I stopped weaving Grimm’s fairy tales did those horrors stop. 

  “Your weaving is no different from a child’s… a few months perhaps? Will it be when you get to perform? Perhaps in a kinderarten’s talent show?”

Rummaging through my drawers and cupboards, an album of Myrtle’s complete interpretations emerged from piles of unfolded clothes. I unboxed the album, a sudden perfume of Beethoven’s sonatas wafted through a warm breeze. Lotus petals and waterfalls replaced the tentacles and humiliation. 

Only when I closed my eyes could I shut out the reflections of my inept abilities. Instead, a fraud of beauty waxed over my entire figure.

“See? I knew you could do it!” Olive’s voice made my heart skip a beat. 

Sealing the interpretation away immediately, I gazed at her with utter guilt. “Olive, please be serious, I can’t…”

“Do worse than Myrtle? I  can feel it, you’ll beat her under the age of 20.” Olive chuckled, holding my hand.

“No… Olive… wait…”

“There’s nothing to be shy about,” she laughed. 

“You’re a prodigy.”

My throat tightened and I got tired of blinking. Tears gushed out as my lips trembled silent confessions. Crying barely helped. Olive’s hand patting my head only caused me to weep harder.

“Myrtle, wait! You have to help me,” I said, backstage.

“Can it wait till after the performance?” Myrtle hissed as the curtains started to draw. 

Light began pouring in and I felt the hellfire, trapped in my pupils, about to pulsate loose.

“No, you don’t understand!” I shouted as the audience before us waited. Olive sat at the front row, last to stop clapping.

“What?” Myrtle said. Two pools in her blindfold darkened.

“I need your blindfold—”

Myrtle shoved me to the front, the audience now gaping at us in anticipation. 

“Weave!” She replied. 

“I can’t!” My breath hitched and cracked.

“I…”

“What?” She yelled, holding her blindfold in place even when it was tied tight around her head.

“Spit it out!” The audience groaned.

My lip trembled. “I failed at everything!” 

“What?” Myrtle asked. “What did you say?”

“I failed…” I mumbled. “I failed! I failed! I failed!”

The audience started discussing among themselves.

“I can’t texterise! I can’t weave!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. Before the audience’s uproar died down, I lunged at Myrtle for her to come with me. She dodged and I grabbed her blindfold instead.

The ground gave way to tendrils, and the same chaos reverberated through the air. I was not weaving. 

Pools of tears gushed out of her dull brown eyes. Across the stage, under the gaze of a thousand people, the ugliness of Myrtle’s performance magnified into view.

“Faker!” The entire audience gestured at Myrtle in disgust. Disappointment glimmered in their eyes.

“No!” Myrtle cried out as a security guard dragged her offstage. 

I stood there as the front row spat at her. People with their eyes glistening with kaleidoscopes of Monet’s landscapes and Persephone’s songs laughed at her.

“Child! Child! Go perform at a juvenile detention and the toddlers would call you out for being off-weave!”

In the midst of the shouting, Myrtle’s head bobbed out of the door. My throat tightened again and I tried forcing my eyes closed, not daring even to let a shed tear slip one tendril into view.

As I began to make my way backstage, a round of applause reverberated across the room.

“Weave!” The audience began. “You’re better than Myrtle! At least you’re not a fake!”

“Weave! Weave! Weave!” I tried shutting my eyes throughout that round of cheering.

“What’s happened?” Olive’s familiar voice dwindled down to a whisper. She leaned closer to the stage, gazing blindly at me with no target in sight. 

“You’re just scared. Just weave. You’re going to do amazing.”

By Asma Jamil, a 12th grade student.

At 25 years old, I stand in front of my father. 

We are mirrored, leaning against pillars that lead to the balcony. If you were to notice a difference, it's probably the cigarette in his hand. The 3rd of the 2nd pack today. My mouth contains the 50th curse word I've said at the sight of his face.

It snows and he wears his coat, his gray hair dashingly shiny under the white shadows. I see it gray and she sees it black. 

She sits between her mother's knees while her mother's stoned body sits on a chair that could break any second.

The house reeks of weed and rum, but she smells home. Poor, pathetic girl. 

Her mother recites her name with care that I feel my heart ache to. "Eloise."

My father and I glance at each other, he can't see me. But he sees my face before he turns to the girl splayed onto the ground. 

"Eloise," his raspy voice speaks and I break into pieces onto the wooden tiles. My father's voice is what wakes the girl. Her wide, brown eyes glare at the cigarette in his hand. 

My mother is unfazed. She does not breathe the same air as me, surely the girl sees it, too. The blunt in one hand, the other hand on the girl's cheek and her head in the clouds. 

"Michael," she groans, the girl flinches when my mother's skin makes contact with hers. Cold hands and a warm face, a combination more painful than the wrath of a father. 

"Father," the girl whispers, unable to speak. I watch her crawl towards him, knees bruising on the ground as her scratched palms hold her up. I am unable to grab her and pull her. I am scared. I am scared because my father cannot see me. 

So I watch the girl crawl to his feet, looking at him with eyes I resist pulling out. Her pleading gaze is what has resulted in me standing here. 

"Stand up," he orders, and the speed in which the girl obeys pierces my heart with anger. Her legs are cut, her joints visibly tortured. Her face is unharmed, her arms and legs and torse through her ripped shirt are fashioned with red scratches and blood that seems like it'd feel icky to touch. I gag at the smell of blood and powder mixed. 

A hand from my father grabs a hand of the girl's and they head to the living room as my mother watches. I watch my mother wake up, and I frown at her constantly shutting eyes. 

I walk to her to rid her of the blunt spilling over her dainty fingers. I open her eyes, and I carress her fogged ears. I slap her mouth and scratch her throat. "You can look, listen, speak and scream. What causes your silence?" I whisper through her heart and move once a scream rips from her throat. 

She screams and shouts as I hear my father tatter with the girl's dying figure. I hear a bottle break one second and a scream at the sound of a slice next, and I smile as my mother screams.

"Do you hear that?" I whisper and she screams so loud I am unable to hear it. 

By Utsuk Upreti, a 17 year old senior in high school at St. Xavier's College. He is from Hetauda, Nepal.

My mother burst into a cry when her sister hugged her by the door. I watched her fearless arms slowly coiling around my mother and forning a small, special pond for my mother where she could spill all her tears, as I stood nervous and regretful near her.

Why didn't I have such dutiful, fearless arms? Why couldn't I hug my mother? I will later.

Although I had some combination of words that I could say to comfort her when she suddenly sobbed in the middle of the day, It wasn't anything special or personal for any stranger could say that to my mother without giving out the faintest breath of genuine care.

Although they were the same generic words of comfort, if uttered by her son, surely it should mean something to her.

She was in the most difficult phase of her life, and I was her son. I could have done better. Sometimes I pretended it wasn't a very big deal and she wasn't the only one.

How could she expect me to suddenly express all the love that I have for her in this very moment when she isn't even dying?

prayed to be sick on my stomach so I could vomit all my love for her right on her clothes, and she could examine the vomit as long as she wanted, to see if I had some disease. I told my sister, If you see me crying in my room, bring her and make sure she sees the tears falling through my cheeks before I wash my face."

My sister didn't actually cry. Why should I? She told me once, "When I need to cry, I just pick my nose. The tears come automatically."

All my cousins had done it. My grandparents too. Even the bald uncle who suffered from a chronic condition of dry eye produced tears in front of my mom. She saw the tear from every eye who she believed cared for her.

If you can't differentiate one person's tears from the other, why should you differentiate the eyes? If I cried, I would produce the tears of the same color and same general taste.

Instead of crying, holding her hands, or hugging her, I wrote an angry poem. "Cancer-" What an excuse to bear two bodies inside one, I do fear the day your body fades away and I, under- the thundering silence of your death, cry for more bodies of you. But-Cancer? I am not proud, mother. I am not relleved I curse the night, your cells-without the consent of your soul, without the consent of every breath that perishes, without the consent of, the beauty of degradation of life-proliferated inside your breasts like a fire in the beautiful forest. And you were quiet, mother- On your secret journey of cloning, while my countless questions on your silent bearings, curled around my tongue like snakes I vomited tears as you vomited drugs I got surrounded by demons immersed in their guilt as you got surrounded by nurses Immersed in their routine. I ask for an answer, mother, Why did you bore those reckless cells? To give rise to another body which I can embrace to feel your love when the old one disappears one day? Or, was it just your body's little mischief? Like I, as a child, once befriended a cat as someone to play with- But you scolded me, mother- for my silly mischiefs. Did you do the same for the mischiefs of your heedless cells? I wish these words didn't dance drunk on my tears I wish you had found another way that replicates your body which doesn't split apart your soul.

I figured the perfect time to hug my mother would be when she retums home after her final chemotherapy. I'll hug her just by the door, I didn't need to cry and I didn't need to smile either. I could just hug my mother, Every time the main gate creaked, my heart jolted awake and tried to run away from the authority of my pathetic, fearful mind. A triumphant sun rose over my family and I was afraid. My mother beat cancer and I was afraid. At the moment of celebration, I was afraid. The gate creaked again. My mother had returned home from the bazaar of death, buying for herself, a brand-new life.

I looked at myself in the mirror. I cried as if my mother had died. This time, I didn't wish my mother could see this. I cried because. what went wrong? Why couldn't my mother just know that I cared for her and cried and prayed for her wellbeing locking myself in the bathroom? I heard her voice. I felt her footsteps. I felt her relief. I also felt myself digging a hole in her heart. I need...need to embrace my mother. I will. later. The night came too early. / hug her right before she goes to bed. The time she goes to bed came too early. I' hug her right after she wakes up. The moming also came too early. I went to her room, I wished her good morning. Then, I pretended to search for something and left the room. Later, she prepared a meal like she did before her diagnosis. The rice, dal, everything tasted exactly the same. /I just write a new poem.

The one that would describe my love for her. and I'll read it to her. Yes, that would be a lot better than a hug. By the next morning, I wrote a poem. My voice would never do justice to my words. She should road it herself. I'll just send it to her. I will..Jater. It would be a lot better than a loving, warm embrace. And instead of hoping that my poem expresses my love for her with just as emotion and clarity as a loving embrace would do, I hoped that she compliments me and assures me that I will become a good writer.

1 wish my mother never had cancer. Even more strongly, I wish I was a child when she had cancer so that I could embrace my mother with pure love and innocence every time I saw a drop of tear forming in her eyes, instead of getting away from her and writing a

Poem

Dear mother, think of these words as my arms I wrap these words around you...

(I rest my head in your shoulder)

..in a way they make a much larger pond under your eyes.

(I hope you've left some tears to fill this pond, If you haven't I have a few)

Dear mother, think of these letters as my eyes.

I melt these letters before you..

( let the tears fall on the pond)

in a way the blackbirds hiding in these letters

Will fly and feed on the leeches and worns of the pond.

(I hope the bluebirds in your eyes

will recognize my blackbirds)

Dear mother, think of this poem as my love I carve this poem on every object your eye touches...

(I call all the wild animals to come to the pond)

..in a way you'll always know the poem by heart And recite it every time I lock myself in my room.

(I hope all the animals will gather together

on the pond and quench their thirst of childhood)