Volume 1, Issue 2


henry’s lamprocapnos lip

eyes like april come

touch a now his countenance

fire flew from brush

stumbling his barefoot mud

hogg a tongue withdrawn

biting dust on ever hill

blacker bodies run

and a set fate the rope to yours

lynch to tug the scum

god had caught a naked soul

crawling on a rock

-Zachary Hank

Blood and Flowers

Why is it that

Pain and suffering grace the screens without cringe

While tender kisses leave people off the hinge?

Why is it that people prefer blood and tears

And stuff out of their wildest fears

Over an intimate embrace?

Why is it that gore is PG-13

And one display of the human body is obscene?

Why is it that we are so uncomfortable with love

And view violence as a grade above?

Why are we ashamed of ourselves?

Why, why, why, O Society?

-Luna Khalil

1517 calories

they say my body’s a temple

but it feels like a prison

they say god doesn’t make mistakes

well i must be an exception

because i am so sick of being told to love myself

in a world that teaches me to focus on every single flaw,

in a world where i have to see a reflection

of someone that isn’t me.

some sort of foreign creature

skin and bones staring back at me

missing the parts of myself that I’ve lost along the way

in a world where i don’t feel at home anywhere

because I’ve never felt at home with myself

in a world where i feel a disconnect

so strong that i feel like this is some sort of test

to see if i can survive long enough

to one day end up happy


sentences / a metaphor

you are a run on sentence that i wish never ended.

you ran through my life like i was an empty void you’ve been trying to fill

but when people bring up my name at a dinner table

your lips tremble and your hands shake and suddenly it was like

it was like my arms never domesticated you into a home you’ve never had

it was like i never loved you like there was no tomorrow

i ripped my heart open just so you could throw it into the same river we used to watch  sunsets in

i told you you were beautiful and i meant it

you told me you wanted me to be yours

and you told the same thing to an empty void who had blue eyes and red stained lips

why did you hurt me why does everyone hurt me

ive been destroying myself for a home that wanted no residency

for someone to talk about me like i actually meant something

when people bring up my name at a dinner table

your lips still trembled and your hands still shook

but this time it was different.

this time the run on sentence spoke

and she finally ended.

you left my life and i guess i will meet more run on sentences that will eventually make up this unsettled story i call my life.

-Lexie Hureau

Alyssa Boyle's photo

Alyssa Boyle 2015
Alyssa Boyle 2015

4:00 am symphony

teardrops embedded into blankets,

         stained by lonely nights and spinning ceilings,

the faint sounds of cars twirling,

and the feeling of hands shaking

tells me the night is a scary time.

we are haunted by our mistakes

with no one awake to forgive us.



every turning firefly

that never speaks back

and when yellow is to touch

will desire when ?

golden spurts that flicker proud

and amber, glows again

if a color not to be

then say this evening done

telling little…torch absolved

hang from sleep’s delusion

what a dream it is to reach

and disappoint to hold

-Zachary Hank



Detach and breathe. It’s funny how a day can change everything.

Trip and stumble. The concrete seems warmer than your arms anyways.

Collapse and scream. Vocal chords were meant to shout- you were given them for a reason.

But as you’re screaming no sounds come out and the once open screen doors let in snow from the winter and take the warmth from a home. The walls shake around you and you wonder if it’ll ever stop- you wonder if your home can just be a home.

A place to love, a place to stay, a place to get away from thoughts.

Thoughts that get stuck round and round in your head, trapped in an 8 by 11 foot room with painted white walls and a bed tucked into a corner. You crawl into the blankets to get away from things- stress, life, love, pain,- but it all just seems to sink into your skin with the warm. You see the essay you need to write for school, see your mother in a hospital bed saying over and over she’ll be okay, see your lover crawling into bed with another and see your father wasting away into a fragment of what he used to be.

You see your whole life flashing before your eyes- just the bad moments at two am when you think you’re the only one awake, but really you’re just too scared to ask if you’re alone. You’re afraid the answer will be yes, but you’re also afraid of no- you can’t be hurt by others if you’re alone. The only first slamming into your gut is your own, the only fingers squeezing your heart is your own, the only one doing damage is you and that’s who you’d blame anyways.

You detach from people who hurt you, but you’re the one being distant and cold.

You trip over the concrete and suddenly you’re clumsy, instead of the pavement being uneven and slanted to one side.

You complain and suddenly you’re whining about every little thing- the thoughts in your mind not counting for anything.

Because how could it be anyone else’s fault but me?

-Naomi Yamanita

        IMG_0338 copy   IMG_0370 copy  IMG_0242 copy

eli, 2015


Morning sky

Sees itself

In the waters below.

Water returns to sky,

Moment by moment…

And falls back as rain.

We stand in silence

And observe the scene

As future ghosts

That time will soon forget.

All we are

Is all we were

And will become again.


The Wilted Heart

Your turpentine kisses

Slither up my arm.

Each battered rose

Counts down my days

With you.

Wine spills

Across the marble floor,

Painting ripples of stained glass.

Veins upon the ground,

Veins upon my skin.

You would never

Do me any harm.

-Luna Khalil


Does responsibility morph around you,

Clinging like a swim suit?

Can you learn to be seamless,

As seamless as a cloak?

Maturity is a tricky balance:

Too many burdens and the threads rip,

Or else fabric pools around you,

Pooling at childish ankles.

Adulthood seems as ill-fitting

As my grandmother’s sweater.

Maybe it’s meant for me to grow into,

But only time can tell.

-Luna Khalil