Whenever I would look at him, I’d keep on trying to imagine him as words in my head. Smart. Sexy. Witty. Charming. I’d try to somehow form a memory of him in the way that comes to me most naturally—words.
But as time passed, only pictures remained in my mind.
The images that cycled through my head were his eyes—the three most distinct temperaments in his eyes.
The way he used to look at me when he was happy—eyes that seemed to be full of wonder at his being there with me, clothed only in timid sunlight. At those times, I felt home. I felt that was all I needed—his presence, and our mutual astonishment at being.
Then his eyes when he was angry—clutching the steering wheel of his parked truck with white knuckles, yelling. I didn’t even understand him at that point—all I understood were the eyes. His anger, and his lack of respect and loss of love.
And then the way he gazed at me when he was sorry— at night, helplessly, as he whispered to be forgiven in the dark. Apologies in them. I looked at them until I couldn’t take it anymore—until I turned my back to him and cried yet again.
Three pairs of eyes. I felt that if I continued what I had with him, we would cycle through those sets again and again. But out of three, two of them would have me crying.
I knew then I would have to let him go.

I Am Not Yours

As my eyes open to the morning light, my body feels exhausted and my mind tells me to roll over and go back to sleep. But you see, it’s not the normal teenage laziness that we all experience in the morning. It’s something that makes my heart drop and my body feel so tired that I can’t find any reason to crawl out of bed. It’s the thought of having to walk by people, pass by the spots where we were together, choking back tears. It’s moments that I’m quiet for too long, where people ask if something is on my mind. My self-worth has been on a path of twist and turns, all downward, and frankly, I can’t do it anymore. It’s hard to see your face every time I close my eyes and not feel like total shit because I want something I can’t have. I don’t want to think about the cute little texts that you send me throughout the day and how you sleep with your phone by your bed in case I need you and call me your love. But the main thing that I don’t want to remember is that I am not yours and you are not mine.

That Summer

And so that summer, up on rooftops, with cold but sometimes warm rum, the sunshine, just us, as friends…or whatever. We spent every last second we could up there, taking in the city, taking in ourselves. Not a care in the world. There were no paychecks, no homework assignments, no arguments. We could barely hear the horns honking in the busy Seattle streets below. I never waited for your calls, I never asked where you’d been, because all mattered was what we did, not who we were.
Somehow, I always find my way back to rooftops, to see where I am, to see where I want to go, even if there’s no implied direction, I have to be able to see. The way I wanted to see you, the way I saw you that summer.
Perfect.

A Body Martyred

Cowering beads
Of sweat retreat
To the origin of fear
As pin pricks of terror
Reverse the melancholic phase
Of the Phoenix Stigmata
Crying tears of onyx
Pools of oil erupt
And bleed out
Through the holes
Of a body
Martyred

Come to You

Open eyes
Silent lips
Full of quiet violence
Of screams and ashes
Burnt by your mistakes
I opened the door too late
Who knows how much I care
Go ahead
Fall down
Leave me behind
I'll be fine
But not so quiet anymore
There's nothing left
For me here
So I will come to you

Guest Writer: Madison Wheatley Campbell

Everything we pass summers.
The sky is an expanse of muted gray,
Save for one patch of pink lemonade light.
The lightning dares the earth come alive,
But even the hard-worked fields sigh
Soaking in sweet May showers.
Raindrops sluggishly streak across my windowpane
As we travelers cruise into a tiny town,
Probably the fastest things around for miles.

She Wrote

She wrote all her troubles
On the wings of a paper airplane.
The heartbreak, the injury, the pain.
She climbed to the roof top
Of her apartment complex
And let the airplane go.
She watched as it fell
Straight down
Into a puddle
Of sludge and spilled motor oil
And then, with tears
Slipping off her face
From the edge of the rooftop
She let herself go.