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Leave me to this gore. Leave me to my pain. Leave my broken, shattered bones to be cleansed by acid rain. You won’t cut my sickly hair. You won't tear away my limbs. You won’t invoke your will on anything that I possess within. You are not my savior. You are not my end. You are one more attempt to break me when I will only bend. Cut away my dreams. Scrape away my peace. The earth will take my screams and turn them into trees. Stay away from my remains. Avoid my twisted fate. Stay away from these organs that I promised I’d donate. You need not express your pity. You need not try and run. You need not try to remedy anything that has been done. I am no longer here I am somewhere far away. I have left behind my fear But my wrath is here to stay. So leave me. Leave me to slowly decompose and gently wash away. Leave my bloody, bedraggled body Because I have died today And your hands shall not desecrate my final resting place.

As October turns around the corner, the leaves turn red like i turn liquid. And i have discovered sterile school hallways characterize my smiles; my small talk has become second nature as my mind ponders rants I’ve categorized myself within. As October turns around the corner, the leaves turn orange like i turn liquid. the slope of my nose shines like my mother's. the crevices of my heels, cracked, like my father’s. that girl, from grade 2, who shared favorite songs with me the same way we shared birthday cake. or is it, ancient phrases that have rubbed off onto my tongue, rejuvenating my mother tone. or is it, ancient ghosts that have rubbed off into my blood, rejuvenating my broken sentiments. As October turns around the corner, the leaves turn burgundy like i turn liquid. i am condensed; flowing. but can you tell me? can you tell me when flowing turns to freemoving, to sculpted, to constructed, to impressions, to becoming bits of each moment, to becoming pieces of each person? -noun- self /self/ A person's essential being that distinguishes them from others, especially considered as the object of introspection or reflexive action, a state of October. The leaves turn ashen like i mold. my arms outstretched, an impending vacuum awaits the feeble branches, as i steal shades from sickly veins. as if waiting for barren trees and greying leaves would conceal my lacking wisdom. and yet, me is really us, throughout all contradictions, our molecules phase, melt, pretend, never forgetting each color, each phase, and each end.

In a corner of the world, far away from both you and me, a small village woke up to a strange truth: their eyes were gone. The news spread quickly past the dry mountains that had long concealed their hunger and thirst. Every news outlet reported on it. Breaking news: A VILLAGE OF PEOPLE WITH NO EYES News like this is bound to cause polarization between believer and doubter. Comments ranged from “How bizarre, how tragic” to “How exaggerated is this?” And the conversation mutated from “How can we help?” to “How can we believe?” Despite that, soon the charities came. They arrived with crates of supplies and teams of volunteers. They distributed canes and recorded instructions. They posed beside villagers for photographs meant to inspire donations elsewhere. Their footsteps unaware that these streets had been trampled by other boots, those who didn't come to “help”. The villagers accepted what they were given, some grateful, others reluctant. The help brushed lightly over their lives, gentle as a hand that never quite touched the skin. No one asked why the wells had dried decades ago, or why the village's fields lay fallow despite the fertile rivers that flowed elsewhere. No one asked about the darkness that preceded blindness. In the end, the residents of that village died of hunger and drought, not blindness. To this day, the curious case of the Caucasus village has yet to be deciphered. Was it a curse, a disease or simply something never meant to be understood? Nevertheless, the last trace of these people was a single sentence written the day before the ‘blinding,” it said: “You took our sight for not seeing the world the way you do.”

Life doesn’t always go the way we want, but somehow, it always leads us to where we’re meant to be. At first, we think kindness is enough, and that good intentions can save every bond. Then we learn— not everyone will understand our heart, and sometimes, distance is a form of peace. Life doesn’t apologize when it hurts us, nor explain when it changes us. It simply moves on, leaving quiet scars that remind us of who we used to be. We break to understand, we lose to appreciate, we fall only to rise again— stronger, softer, and wiser. The beauty of life isn’t always in joy, but in the courage to smile when our heart feels heavy, and in the strength to stand even when we feel alone. We forgive, not because we forget, but because peace matters more than pain. We survive, not because it’s easy, but because hope keeps whispering— “keep going.” And in the end, we realize every loss was a lesson, every ending a new beginning, and every moment a step toward the person we were meant to become.

peering in through frosted glass as you sit in a graveyard of cedar thrones chins held high, hammering a plastic gavel with fisted hand below you, The Table shakes is your highchair tall enough? if you could only see the angle I view you when I crane my neck up to look I am six feet under your gavel, facing the brunt of an unworldly violence I may not be able to see much past the window’s glare, but I can still see straight through you I can see how The Table, stilted, crumbles how odd that another voice determines me tilting me on an axis, shifting my world until even gravity seems to slip but The Room holds still, the people inside motionless. how odd that the first time you saw me, face blurred from the dripping rain, you closed the drapes creeping in through locked doors as you char the crutch I could only hope to create my hands splintered and calloused, wood smooth under palm, if I carve a seat for myself how can you say, then I have no place here?

The rain hadn’t stopped for days. The world outside my window looked washed out — streets glistening with puddles, trees bending under the water’s weight, the sky heavy with gray. My room smelled faintly of damp air and water, the hum of the radiator competing with the steady rhythm of my breath. I sat at the edge of my bed, watching water droplets race down the glass, counting the seconds between droplets of water. It was here, in this small, dim corner of the world, that I began to notice how still everything felt — how still I felt. In the quiet of the room, a mirror watched me. It had memorized the way my shoulders fell inward, the way my eyes drifted from droplets to the storm. It reflected my body but not any warmth—like a ghost that forgot how to fill my own outline. Sometimes, it caught the faint shimmer of the fog as I exhaled, as if embarrassed to be witnessed by something so silent. The mirror wished it could shatter, just to show me how I was feeling. I measured my life in breaths. Each inhale, a small rebellion. Each exhale, a surrender. The thud of my body hitting the bed was a repeated sound — an empty pulse. Every day was the same, a cycle of reaching for some kind of feeling. A good feeling. The storm kept tightening around the house; for days, it’s been raging, and the entire world feared what it promised. Its voice grew sharper as the hours passed. Lightning flickered through the room like someone flipping the world’s light switch on and off, trying to catch me in a moment I couldn’t hide. The rain pounded the roof so loudly it became its own kind of heartbeat, one I couldn’t sync with. I felt like if I stepped outside, the wind would take me whole —carry me away like a loose leaf, unnoticed. When it first found me a month earlier, it was only a pause. An ocean to black out noise, and as I floated, the entirety of life seemed to quiet. Even the whispers of the world were drowned in the stillness of the water. As the world around me faded, I had a steady breath. I was floating in an ocean of my own reflections. Not here, but there, untouched. But I began to delay trips back to the surface. The water became an aid, then a necessity. The stillness stopped being a comfort; it became the only nourishment I craved. I told myself it was harmless, just temporary. I could stop at any moment. Yet, with each passing day, my reality retook its discord. It seemed the world itself couldn't spin without it. It was stuck motionless, and I was trapped with it. That week, the storm grew worse. Streets started closing, drains overflowed, and neighbors’ voices echoed faintly through the rain as they rushed to move their cars or tape their windows. Even from my room, I could hear the chaos —sirens, shouting, the slam of doors, fighting wind. But all of it felt far away, happening on some distant shore I no longer lived on. My mother moved through the house with a kind of frantic purpose, unplugging lamps, checking flashlights, urging me gently to stay awake, stay awake. But I felt like a ghost wandering a house that was preparing for a disaster I couldn’t feel anymore. That night, it broke me. The air was thick, heavy, refusing to move from my chest to my head. I tried to find the still that always calmed me, but my mind remained paused. The floor was cold beneath me, the walls blurring, my body trembling around the ghost of that familiar pause. I wasn’t floating anymore — I was sinking. Outside, the storm hit its peak. The power flickered once, twice, and then the room fell into darkness so complete it felt like a physical thing pressing in on me. Thunder cracked so close it shook the floorboards under my palms. For a moment, I couldn’t tell if the trembling belonged to the storm or to me. The house groaned from the pressure of wind pushing against it, each gust like a warning that the world was tearing at its edges. I remember thinking the storm was going to rip the roof off before I could take my next breath. As I began to close my eyes and prepare for an eternity of water, she found me. My mother saw me and what I had become. My chest hollow, my hands trembling around an invisible promise I had clutched onto tight. You cannot breathe when you're sinking, and I was now drowning. The stillness that had carried me now threatened to suffocate me, and I could never persist. She burst into the room like she was pushing through the storm itself, her silhouette outlined by the dim emergency lights we’d plugged in hours ago. Rain hammered the windows behind her so violently that it looked like the glass might give. But she didn’t look back at it — she looked only at me. While the world outside roared and cracked, she knelt beside me with a steadiness the wind couldn’t touch. She paused, as she knew the storm was not near over. Her presence filled the room with strength, but was not overbearing — it was calm, just as the steadiness of her breath. She never flinched from the thunder surrounding her. The curse of time had weathered her face, but the experience it came with had softened it. Her mind was a map of both hurt and love. She spoke gently, but with weight around every word, as if she had lived through her own stillness once and refused to let it claim me too. Her voice cut through the crash of waves — frantic, scared, real. I wanted her to wash just as the entire world seemed to have done, but she remained still by my side. She called my name again and again to make me realize how long it had been since I’d really heard it. Her hands found my shoulders, and I gasped, choking on water that had poisoned my lungs. My body didn’t remember how to breathe. Every inhale burned, every exhale came jagged and uneven, like I was learning to exist all over again. As I laid there, clinging to her, the waves began to backwash. She spoke to me, screaming, “Breathing is never a weakness. It’s a surrender in the right direction. You can choose to come up for air. Choose to for me.” At that moment, the storm began to clear. I gasped. My mother stayed close —not hovering, just breathing beside me, steady and patient. From that day, I realized I was not too far. If I wanted to still be here, with her, I needed to make that choice. Over time, she helped me find peace in the little things, and slowly, I found rhythm again. I still measure life in breaths, but not in the feeling, in the meaning. Each inhale carries the ache of trying again. Each exhale releases the weight I used to crave. Stillness still finds me sometimes, whispering tales of an eternal peace, but now, the weight of stillness no longer sinks me; it has inspired me to rise. Even when it hurts, even when the water closes over your head. Because even when you’re swimming, you can still find air.

HEY BLACK CHILD DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE WHO YOU REALLY ARE Black child wonders does black child really know who black child really is she lives in a world that forgets her all the time that has reduced her to a mere story black child just wants to be noticed to be accepted black child does not understand why the world hates black child black child is scared to leave the comfort of home black child wants to live in safety but black child knows she is not the same but she wants to be the same does black child want to be white? DO YOU KNOW YOU CAN BE WHAT YOU WANT TO BE IF YOU TRY TO BE WHAT YOU CAN BE Can black child really be what she wants black child has tried but failed everyone says stop black child feel lost in the world some say black child can do it but others the majority says black child should give up that child can't be anything in the world so white black child forgets she has a color of her own black child wants to be seen wants to be but what can black child even be? HEY BLACK CHILD DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU ARE GOING WHERE YOU'RE REALLY GOING Black child does not know where black child will go black child goes left there a wall back right there is a wall black child tries to rise but there something stopping black child black child is looking for a way out but the ride out is is scary and black child is only a child black child wants to go wants to live wants to do things go places but where can black child go? DO YOU KNOW YOU CAN LEARN WHAT YOU WANT TO LEARN IF YOU TRY TO LEARN WHAT YOU CAN LEARN Black child wants to learn but the world says black child is dumb and can’t do anything black child wants to be things wants to learn new things but black child is stopped by the same world that killed martin luther king jr. and malcolm x black child wants to be like them wants to be smart wants to help but black child is so afraid will black child end up like emmett till? HEY BLACK CHILD DO YOU KNOW YOU ARE STRONG I MEAN REALLY STRONG Black child knows black child is black after all and black people are supposed to be strong and fast but can’t swim black child laughs black child thinks of the times black child spent in the pool with black child's friends back when black child didn't know that the world thought that black child could not swim when black child was not afraid of the white world will black child ever not be afraid? DO YOU KNOW YOU CAN DO WHAT YOU WANT TO DO IF YOU TRY TO DO WHAT YOU CAN DO. But can i do what i want to do even if i try i’ve tried so many times to do what i want to. live the life i want but the world would stop me time and time again black child is done with it all it seems strange that black child would say that when black child is sitting in a class with everyone else not segregated yet sometimes black child feels lost black child does not know what else to say. HEY BLACK CHILD BE WHAT YOU CAN BE LEARN WHAT YOU MUST LEARN DO WHAT YOU CAN DO AND TOMORROW YOUR NATION WILL BE WHAT YOU WHAT IT TO BE Okay black child will try to learn what she can learn and do what she can do but she won’t make promises to anyone and she hopes her nation will be better than it is now. Good bye from black child

Stoplight on 1st Ave and 2nd St Sun beating on the road, the cars, my face– the leftovers of summer’s wrath. Muggy air and midafternoon sun, cold air blowing from squeaking vents, a swirl of dizzying temperature. Slowing down, red light my command slotted into one lane over from the right I pause my mad dash home, seeing it neatly placed, upon head of tar speckled pavement and white paint lines. A crown, made of cardboard, lackluster yellow, luminated by sun’s hands reached through gaps in stopped cars pockets of sunshine, on royal pavement. (Ekphrastic response by Maggie Ebinger)