Poetry

On some nightswhen I can’t sleep,
I sit up just to listen
To the silence of 2 AM
where air feels like
a thin sheet so fragile,
to the point I hold my breath out offear
Of breaking
And shattering this peace.

I am not a stranger to these thoughts
A tensionturns daily
Like a broken clockwhere even
when the day ends
Something is still off, stuck at
A wrong time, refusing to move forward.

I envy thoselike you, who sleep
Without a worry.

I truly wonder what it’s like
To be you, to shine like you know best
And
to captivateso easily it still aches
To catch a glimpse.

Would I breathe easier
If I were you?
Would you notice
If I borrowed your reflection for just one day?
Isn’t it funny
How heinous envy tastes,
Disguised as a guileless admiration.
Maybe,If I wake up,
tomorrow
Stitched to my own peeling flesh,
I can swallow it and
finally
face you again.

Annie Liang is a high school student who lives and writes in San Jose, California. She has recently fallen in love with poetry, drawn to its ability to be expressive and explore many different themes. When she’s not writing, she spends her time painting, reading, and exploring the intersections of neuroscience and human experience. She hopes to continue shaping her voice through crafting more works that linger and resonate.

After Tracy K Smith

I spent six months not wearing
College t-shirts so she’d smile.
Wearing, instead, my best dresses
Or steamed jeans. Anything to
Diminish my accomplishments.
Gradually, it felt like a tightrope act,
which meant it was time to leave.

Two months later, I saw her
Posing in a yard, lacy red socks,
Blue checked dress, eyeliner dots
Along crow’s feet. Five bows, total.
So happy it leaked out of her pores,
Pooled in muddy grass. I saw her
And it felt like the first time. Back before

You existed to me, you were a theory.
Now I know everything: your favorite FNAF
Game theory video. Your fascination with
Disney World mechanics—magic with a
Science. There is a colored pencil version
Of your will in my sock drawer:
This is what we mean by sharing a life. Still,

From time to time, I think of her watching me
Over brown rimmed glasses, smudged from
Her car’s cup holders. She called it the Batmobile.
But mostly what I see is a human hand,
Reaching out to poke a freckle on my cheek.

Abbey Ella (she/her) is a writer currently attending Sarah Lawrence College in New York. What the Living Do by Marie Howe is the book that sparked her love for writing. Her pieces have been published in Elan Literary Magazine, Words with Weight Magazine, Palette, Luxury Literature Magazine, Jardin Zine, and Blue Marble Review.

be.
two letters,
too many demands.

be better.
be smarter.
be perfect.

behave.
believe.
belong.

but what if i don’t want to be
that person.

what if i’m scared
i won’t be
the best,
the bravest,
or anything at all?

what if i just
want to be.

Sophie Lin is a rising high school junior from Southern California. She enjoys writing poetry and short stories that explore themes of personal growth, experience, and the complexity of life’s challenges.

The alarm goes off
like it’s new,
like we haven’t been training for disaster
our whole lives.

We know how to run,
how to hide,
how to laugh through lockdowns
like it’s just another Tuesday.

The teachers hush our jokes,
but we are fourteen,
already fluent in irony.

We know where the exits are.
We know which desks
won’t stop a bullet.
We know
this is normal
and that’s the worst part.

Tanisha Bose is a teenage poet exploring identity, survival, and silence through raw, lyrical verse. Their work has been previously published in Blue Marble Review, Merion West etc.

After Ayrton Senna

here and now, i chant the only mantra i know,

i would cross seven seas behind you.

like a candle lit for a séance, the car starts.

i spin the world around in my hands.

reverse gear – in the mirrors, dreams refuse to meet my eyes.

i feel the engine oil in my ribs – it needs changing.

metal brother, hold me close – we are all that is left of each other.

through the downpour, i drive under the stent holding open the street.

there are raindrops on my cheek – the windshield wipers can’t wash them away.

if there’s magic in these pedals, let it spin the odometer back.

in the tunnel, going going going – i cross the conscious behind you.

but in the end, the light shows me

nothing ahead but road.

Aarushi Gupta is a nineteen-year-old from Bangalore, India. Her work has been recognized by Elan, Roanoke Review and the Lewis Center for the Arts. She is an alumna of the Iowa Young Writers Studio. You can find her writing at aarushiwrites.com