Category: 2023 Submissions

The water was silent as I stepped off the gangway in Roatán Honduras. The waves feebly grabbed at the boat’s sides with no energy left to fight. The sun had a warm, friendly smile compared to the cold days at sea. As I board the tiny bus I listen to the guide give us the facts. As The bus bumps along the rough cobblestone streets, I glance at the houses that line the street. They look worn from age, one lonesome sigh from collapse.
Poverty hits Roatán hard. I learn my visit is essential for the survival of these people. I watch as a 6-year-old boy roams the street with bracelets, hoping a stray tourist will buy them. I learn Most children stop going to school because they must start providing for their families. Although it is heart-wrenching I realize that you can’t take small things for granted. Going to school won’t kill you. Walking a mile, won’t hurt you. Instead, I take it as a lesson to try harder and be grateful for what I have. It makes me wonder what would have come of me if I had stayed in Guatemala, a poor country much like this one.

936 students, 51 teachers, and 1 active shooter. Everyone sent their last text, then everything went dark. Separated from my friends, I sat crouched on a cold toilet of an empty bathroom. 1, 2, 3, and on I counted until officers pulled out 46 teachers, 933 students, and 1 active shooter. I found my friends Clara, Tyler, and Eddie before going home. The loud echoes of the bullets ricocheting off the stone walls played over and over. They played as I slept, ate, and as I stepped onto campus a few days later. I talked with Clara, Tyler, and Eddie at lunch. Clara complained about a pounding pain in her head, Tyler’s ribs were bruised from practice, and Eddie’s stomach bothered him so much he left early. People stared and whispered as we spoke, but they were overpowered by my friends’ complaints. Complaints and cries and then the obituary. It had been 4 days since we lost 5 teachers and 6 students. “ Wait, 6 students? We lost 3, not 6.” I said out loud to 3 empty chairs in front of me. A girl a table down saw the paper in my hand. “Told you she’d figure it out.”

Like a cat it pesters you when you need it to leave,
But it is nowhere to be found when it’s all you desire.
It’s supposed to give you energy, but it’s like a mailman that doesn’t know your address,
So I know nothing except weariness.
Like a knight without armor it fights a losing battle against grogginess,
And I only speak sentences formed between yawns.
It helps your productivity,
But I have too much work to indulge in relaxation.
It helps you focus,
But my mind is too scattered in thought to settle down.
I long to doze off all day,
But spend an eternity in bed trying to keep my eyes shut.
When I finally do fall into its warm pool of stillness and peace,
My mind entertaining itself with absurd movie-like dreams.
I am abruptly pulled out by the sound of my alarm,
Cold and dripping.
Trying my hardest and failing to go back to that state of serenity.
Now I must live another day of drowsiness tantalized by the thought of rest.

A sponge of inherited behaviors sat quietly on the frigid bathroom floor, staring into the dark hole of water where her meals would be quickly spat up to avoid digestion. She sat there, building the courage to cram her weak fingers down her throat so that she could force out her small salad dinner. She knew it would disappoint her family if they knew what she was doing. She turned on the fan to drown out the noise.
For years she sat on the bathroom floor and observed as her mother pinched at her stomach and measured her waist with her fingers as she got ready for work. Her father would sit her down, poke and pinch her with his words. The words “fat” and “chubby” wrapped around her body like thorny vines and pierced her skin. Her father’s words and her mother’s self-hatred would blossom her brain into a warzone. The spiked vines would wrap around her waist and squeeze tightly. So every night after dinner, she would try her hardest to loosen the evil, trailing plants from her body. Shoving her fingers down her throat, she cried tears of joy as the vines untightened.

Although winter has settled in, I like to imagine that the asphalt still holds the summer’s heat. Driving home on sunny days I like to crank the heater and pretend that it’s the summer sun beating through my windows. As I drive, my mind tends to turn to the future. In nine months I’ll be eighteen, and in a little, over a year I’ll be in college. As Hero Way turns into Nameless I see the landscape with new eyes. The rolling hills of the Texas hill country flow by my windows as I drive, an endless sea of cedar trees and long yellow grass. I notice how the tips of the cedar needles are a brighter green than the rest of the tree, and that grass fades from yellow at the tips, to orange, to a dusty brown base. The colleges that I like the best are in faraway cold states. Someday soon I will no longer experience the long, oven-hot summers that I have grown to love. The sharp scent of cedar will no longer float in sun-scorched air. I can only hope that I can find the beauty in unfamiliar, long, icy winters.

I used to think I was crazy,
I’d wake up in the morning and pull the hair from my scalp
Because it wasn’t lying down properly.
I’d create a tornado in my room
Because I didn’t know what to wear.
Everything was either too tight,
Or itchy,
Or hot,
and God why doesn’t anything fit.
I used to think I was crazy
Because I would go to bed hungry.
Because the best time to lose
Is when you can’t feel it.
I used to think I was crazy
I kept my mouth shut in class
Because a boy once told me I talked too much
and that I was loud.
So I started writing poetry,
I used it as a silent scream,
A way to say what I couldn’t.
I’d read the same ones over and over again at night,
They’d play in a constant loop in my head.
And eventually I started reading these poems to my mother,
I read to her about the sad and happy,
About grief, and love, and loss.
I asked her if she thought I was crazy,
She said no
You’re just a woman.

Parachutes are the screams of your mother vocalizing
“Clean yo damn room” as you stare at your grey dust-layered desk.
A parachute is a slimy dollop of tobacco that Coach D-Bag spit on your
Face for being “ too damn slow”.
A parachute is your brain signaling you to stop
Punching your wall out of anger because you’re annoyed at life.

Parachutes are the horrifying but joyous cries of your mother when she
Found out you were going to be born.
Parachutes are your mother’s tiresome hands guiding you through childhood
To keep you away from drugs and alcohol.
Parachutes are the Riddell helmets that save you from Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy.

Parachutes are your first love’s arms wrapped around you in Cinemark.
Parachutes are oxygen tanks for firefighters after inhaling soot and debris.
Parachutes are the steady hands of Neurosurgeons performing Craniotomies.
A Parachute is Jesus Christ suffering on the Cross for your sins.

Parachutes are heroes that save us from the atmosphere.
Parachutes slow us down so we don’t crash land.
In times of great depression when you’re freefalling around Earth
Questioning your purpose, just remember
Parachutes want you to live.