Category: 2022 Submissions

The Reality of the A student
A Greek tragedy lived by thousands of the damned
They’re caged by an addiction
of papers with hundreds
And a fixation for perfection

The Reality of the A student
Is that they’ll never be perfect
As humans commonly are not
So they strive for an impossible goal
Knowing their efforts are futile

The Reality of the A student
They they are cursed with brains
Prohibited to feel, for the mind is always thinking
Intellect is a curse
When it’s all you are

The Reality of the A student
Though this drug gives them purpose
They would throw it all away
For a chance to be content
To be normal and free

Unfortunately they are addicted
Unfortunately they are human
Unfortunately they are cursed with intellect
Unfortunately they want to be happy
Unfortunately they don’t want to be the A student

But the reality of the A student
The reality of being Alexis Juarez-Delgado
Is that happiness isn’t made for them
For the addiction of being an A student is their purpose
And without purpose, how should I expect to live?

there is a star somewhere,
named after what we created together.

the moon that night was controlled by my smile
so i’m sorry to all the cities i’ve flooded
i didn’t mean to make this a big thing
but i was willing when we met
your comforting words gave me the will to stay a little bit longer

when i think about us,
i think about how galaxies are created in the blink of an eye
i was made stardust all because you were good to me

a year is a long time.
about fifty weeks.
three hundred sixty-five days (three hundred sixty-six if it’s a leap year).
five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.
far too many seconds.

a year is a long time.
school days are long and wearisome.
students dragging themselves to reach may.
when summer finally comes around, the day seems shorter even though the sun is out longer.
quickly the days blow away.
we scramble for more time away from equations and falling leaves, yet there is an excitement for what is to come in the fall.

a year is a long time until it isn’t.
bad news hits. a shadow is cast over the last few bright days of summer.
time is ticking away. the diagnosis is a death sentence.
immediately treatment starts.

a year is a short time.
we visit every day. we come with stories about the school day.
you smile but the wear and tear is shown on your face.
meanwhile, the hope on our faces falls ever so slowly.
treatment fails. our days together are limited.
time is an impeding countdown, just waiting for the clock to reach zero.

i am from gas station rest stops
that fueled the hunk of metal which took me anywhere my traveling mind wandered
i am from cramped spaces in an overcrowded backseat
filled with cousins i wasn’t fond of
i am from landscapes i’d never seen before across the country
that i was so blessed to be able to visit
all because of my gracious grandparents
who loved me more than i knew

i am from the house on the corner
that was suddenly so far from the grandparents that looked after
me and my wanderlust heart
i am from the shadows,
not knowing where i belong
i am from a quiet voice
that doesn’t know when or how to speak out

i am from an explosion
of tears and screams released when everyone least expected
i am from questionable stares and unsettling talks
with strangers in an unknown room
i am from being pushed away and kept quiet
by people who were supposed to be caring for me
and only heard me when i cried out for them
but now
i am from people who love me
care for me like no other
see me for me, no matter how difficult

It’s midafternoon. The sun shines ferociously from above as I make my way home from a pleasant day at the beach. The sidewalk floods full of people despite the recent disappearances. There’s a man in a gray suit and long slacks, despite the sweltering summer heat, who catches my eye. It’s not so much his suit I’m interested in, it’s his shadow. When he raises his hand up to catch a paper flowing in the wind, his shadow lifts its foot. Now I’m sure I’m only seeing things but I follow him nonetheless. The man continues to walk forward and occasionally glances over his shoulder almost as if he knows I’m trailing behind. I stare so intently at his shadow now, waiting for it to move differently than its maker, so much so that I run into the man’s back. He stops dead in his tracks; a smile forms on his face. Without warning, I feel something on my leg. I look down and see the shadow’s dark ghostly hands rise from the sidewalk and wrap around my ankles. Swoosh. Darkness. Now I, the shadow, follow the man, waiting for the next curious passerby to add to my collection.

Everybody knows Mrs. Amelia Belladonna. Well known for her green thumb, her garden stands above all others- you can walk by any time of the day and she’ll be out there digging, planting, or sipping her afternoon tea. Mrs. Belladonna collects many unusual plants: Water Hemlock, White Snakeroot, and her favorite Deadly Nightshade. Every Thursday afternoon she would host socials in her garden. The townsfolk would come to walk about her extravagant garden and enjoy her famous tea. However, after her husband, Arthur, died at one of these events she stopped hosting them and closed her garden gates. After examination her husband’s death was deemed due to a heart attack, but many townsfolk refused to believe it. Arthur Lewis Belladonna was a healthy, stubborn, strong-headed man. In fact those speaking with him moments before his death said it was the most palpable they’d ever seen the man. His death was slow- everybody watched as he collapsed and rushed to aid but to no avail. Mrs. Belladonna stood to the side watching them trying to help her husband. Her face was stoic and cold, her body motionless. Arthur was buried in her garden six feet below her favorite plant, Deadly Nightshade.

My newborn eyes open. I can’t wait for life. The fire inside me starts growing as I too start growing up. Six years old. I want to be a ballerina. NO NO NO. You must become a doctor no ballerina nonsense. Dreams crushed, waterfalls come out of my eyes. Ok, I won’t dream anymore. I will be number one. Anything other is unacceptable. Constantly studying and doing homework. Working and pushing to my best. Why Why Why. No matter how hard I try it’s never good enough for you. Why is it that I am the firstborn of immigrants? Why is it that my Asian grandparents expect this of me? Suffering is what they felt escaping Vietnam. Escaping and drowning is me trying to run from these expectations. Silence and darkness as the candle that is me gets blown out and now I am burnt out. There is nothing left, but I still have to trek across the vast deep tiding ocean with all my family’s expectations bound on my back.

She poured lukewarm water into the spherical vase filled with yellow roses. She could see him watching her out of the corner of her eye. He watched her with the same admiration he had for the last fifty years. She finished filling the vase and slid her chair closer to his bedside. When children, grandchildren and cousins visited, they could only see how his brown skin wrinkled and the wires connecting his frail body to medicine and monitors. When they held his hand, they only felt the dry cracks in his palms. But when she looked at him, she saw the fresh seeds of sunflowers and yellow roses that they planted after buying their first home. She thought about how the beaming sun reflected the light from his heart onto her skin. When she touched his hands, she remembered how many times she had to stitch them up because he was always clumsy with garden shears. When she held him for the last time, she thought about how he held their first baby girl in his arms with genuine care she’d only seen him give to everyone he held close to his sun-kissed heart.