Beautiful Pain

by Riley Nee

beautiful pain,

idealized by all

struggle with strength

through

tear streaked cheeks

breakup songs on repeat

because what is life if not a little bit hard?

what if sad girls are just more beautiful?

in torn up misery, and self degradation.

smeared mascara and forced smiles.

something to behold.

creatures tinted with hazy gorgeous pain.

but pain is not always so morbidly marvelous

when loss and loneliness take a turn for the worse,

and those same girls, just different versions i suppose

have blood run down their arms,

and scars replace the hurt

they think they deserve it.

so they only do it more.

don’t eat for days, because maybe then they’d be enough.

when those girls stop shedding beautiful tears and just go numb

every moment they live

every smile and laugh

every sloppy wet kiss

breeze through the warm air,

walk through the night

ice cream cone covered in sprinkles

is seen through

pale

gray

lense.

plagued by their demons

or maybe nothing at all

these girls have never seemed so small.

and they’re ugly.

lines tracing thighs and arms,

marks of their hurt

these girls are not so beautiful anymore

people learn to stay away

from these ugly, pain-filled types of girls

the ones who

pop pills

and stand in front of trains

and wish for it all to go away

and usually once people start to go away, it is already too late.

ugly pain scarred on their faces

contorted in sorrow and anger

at an unkind world

until one day these girls just fade away

into nothing more than, once beautiful pain

My Old Home

by Julian Heidelberg

My old house was stationed at the end of a cracked concrete driveway, surrounded by oak trees - some young and some decades old. The garage faced a shed with a chicken coop attached on the side. The shed was stuffy and hot, the housing for christmas decorations and extra cans of paint; later in its life, after we had moved out, it would be converted to a guest house. My brother and I used to stomp and clap on the concrete by the garage, to listen to the resounding echo it would make on the side of the shed. The biggest wall in the living room was sixteen panes of glass, and during hurricane season it took hours to board them all up. We redid our kitchen after realizing it was far too small and that the adjoining dining room was unused, and so my father, in his vain way, expanded the kitchen himself and cut and varnished the new, orange Mexican tile floor. My room was an office to the last owner, but I wanted the room for myself, and so my parents remodeled it into a bedroom. I had picked out tangerine walls when I was barely tall enough to reach the kitchen counter. My parents, in their endless parental liberalism, decided to let me do what I wanted with my room, even in my young age. Perhaps it was their guilt in moving me from the city to the gun-toting Floridian suburbs that enabled them to leave me alone with my creativity.

My bed was twin-sized for a few years, but when my brother outgrew his matching one, my parents bought a queen-sized mattress with a buy-one-get-one deal, and furnished it with fresh new sheets and an olive-green blanket. In my bright memory, the sheets perpetually dangle off the side of the IKEA bed frame, almost seeming to be chiselled from stone in their stillness. On the left side of the bed was my carved-up white desk. Even though it was new, it was spattered with nail polish and splinters of oak that peeked through the paint. Above my desk was a corkboard with tacked-on stickers, ticket stubs, pamphlets and polaroids of old friends - friends that were no longer friends, but I had been too lazy and forgetful to remove their pictures from my wall. My closet, though perpetually crowded enough to be on Hoarders, was only cleaned or used once in a blue moon, as I usually wore the same khaki shorts and blue shirt each day. On top of my dresser was a CD of Joni Mitchell’s Blue that my mother had given me on my tenth birthday. I took it out some days to play on a red discman and reminisce of even younger days in New York, when my mother would give me her iPod on the subway to listen to Joni’s twangy womanhood. My school books sat in a messy array on my cubic shelves, unstudied and unused, often disregarded for preference of swimming, or reading, or watching movies with my Build-a-Bears. I had acres and acres of meticulously scaped land, and I loved going on walks with my friends to see the clucking chickens, or the slippery balcony, or the chill pool or to climb on top of the roof to watch the sun set. The days smelled like cinnamon and each day seemed more humid than the last.

As the years passed, my room became less bright, my days less youthful, and the monsters underneath my bed were replaced with harnesses and needles. I replaced my desk and took down my corkboard. My parents argued more, my brother was more hostile than ever, and eventually we left the house. I found out a few years later, after being split between two smaller homes, that a girl I knew moved into my home, into my room. She repainted my tangerine walls, tore out my chocolate hardwood, and expanded my closet. I think I took those days for granted. Maybe I didn’t, and the days were just as swell as I remembered them but not a microcosm better and my memory inflates the goodness like a balloon. Nevertheless, when I sit in the grey room at my dad’s house, with no pool and no room to run, and a closet too small to keep my clothes, I wish that my parents hadn’t left the home and each other and I could preserve those days in glass like a snowglobe. I still remember every word to each song on Blue.

Love Letter

by Olive Cape

Dear Abby,

Before you I was lost. I was beginning to accept the fact that everyone feels a disconnect between themselves, and what they thought their future should look like. I didn’t even know that I suppressed the thought that I liked girls. I fought it down because everytime it came to mind, I felt like I was going to throw up. I felt dizzy, and disgusted with myself, because women were supposed to like men. I was supposed to like men. I built up walls, made up of fake-crushes on boys and fitting in with the popular girls, until I forgot that being gay was a possibility.

But you crumbled every wall I built up within a matter of seconds that first night. And I would never regret dating you. Even if it took our friendship, years in the making, and ruined it. Even though we promised it wouldn’t be, I would have given it up if it meant dating you, even for those short months. I will forever feel a magnetic connection to you because you were the first. Because you were the person who made me remember that being gay was possible. You were the person who made me realize I was.

And you made it not scary. You changed my entire life, which should be petrifying, but you were there. Every step of the way. So, what should have been nervous panic attacks about my life changing in a mere instant, were fits of laughter and nervous butterflies during late night facetimes. Instead of the restless nights spent awake and scared of who I was becoming, they were restless nights thinking about you, and your smile, and your blue eyes surrounded by freckles that I couldn’t look away from. You were there. There when I was forced to tell my mom about us. When I spent all night sobbing on the floor, finding out she outed me to her friends and family. After she told me that I made her uncomfortable. You were there reminding me that I wasn’t abnormal. I wasn’t wrong. And you were there at dance hugging me, as my silent tears ran down your exposed shoulder and back.

It was awkward and simple and raw. And we were lost and beautiful and naive. Those months were hidden glances, and long talks on that windowsill behind our dance studio. It was holding hands underneath blankets, and running down empty hallways, tension buzzing like bees, filling the nervous silence. Those months were hidden kisses in the dark dance studio, rushed before the dancers came down the stairs. It was dying your honey blonde hair pink three times, each one failing, but I loved it because I could run my fingers through your hair. It was everything I could dream of.

Even as it ends, I feel no pain about it. It’s a soft and peaceful ending that seems right, like an angel floating up to heaven. We weren’t meant to be together forever. That wasn’t the point of us. The point was to have those couple months. Of perfect moments where I began to find myself, because of you. And I hope more than anything that I helped you find yourself too. Because I love you. I always will. I love you not as a girlfriend, and not as a friend. It is something different and unique, that I will only have with you. Because you were the first, and you liked me when I didn’t like myself. And you were the reason I began to. That’s why I love you. That’s why I’ll always be yours. In some way or another.

Yours,

Olive

21

by Maitri Kovuru

I looked through my phone today.

Photo album filled to the brim, threatening to spill.

Scrolling far enough back that I laid eyes

on the picture taken when i heard you say

“I love you too” for the first time.

Earphones plugged in,

volume loud as if outgrowing its clothes

tears carving salty streams in my cheeks

remembering the nights we denied that our love had bloomed

like the first time you gave me a gift: a rose.

yellow. a rose of my favorite color. you never forget

I was memorable

even if solely to u

Where would I be if we had never met?

The first one I loved,

to be loved forever.

Ammooma

by Ananya Vinay

I hear a loud, booming voice from upstairs, and I can identify it effortlessly: it’s my grandmother calling from India. Her voice is almost like a bell, unique, with its own intonations, and a light lilt, especially when she speaks Malayalam. Her speech is seamless, with no pause between words, almost like a tornado, and my Malayalam is no match. Regardless, I soak in all the words I can and respond hesitatingly, often with ‘ah’ and ‘illa’. She has black hair, like ivory, with faded tinges of gray, and a round face, almost shaped like an oval. Eyes that are rounded and small, with large black pupils, and a nose that juts out, like a precipice. She wears her hair down, with a gold brooch, when she goes out, and in a bun at home. I used to love taking out her brooch when I was a child and watching her hair tangle. Above all, she has a bright, ready smile at almost anything, and constantly wears a pottu of various shapes and colors. Her jewelry box is large, filled with myriad bangles, necklaces, and earrings, many of which I have borrowed and accidentally taken home.

She takes every opportunity to snatch a little bit of color in life, from shopping to traveling. I have countless memories of following her in department stores, as she tries on colorful sarees, from red to purple, with trademark infectious enthusiasm. Negotiating with the store clerks about the colors and the width of the gold border on traditional white sarees. Even more astoundingly, she has spread her wings far, setting foot on nearly every continent and making friends wherever she travels.

All of these experiences have been part of my life for as long as I can remember, but recently I learned a story that unveiled so much more. She was a trailblazer for women at the time, falling in love with and marrying my grandfather. A family story I recently discovered was that they wrote letters to each other, and my grandfather’s family saw these letters from someone called D.R, which happened to be her initials, but his family thought it was referring to one of his doctor friends. She was widowed at the age of 39, leaving her to raise two children alone, after her husband’s death in a car accident. She had worked as a Malayalam teacher before, which explains her booming voice that exudes authority. But she had to go back to work after that and had to make the best of her situation. And she did, making such an impact on her students that I have heard stories of being invited to their weddings.

From a young age, her goal was to be a teacher, even attempting to educate the other children in the neighborhood. Corporal punishment is an integral part of education there, so in an effort to mimic being a teacher, she would hit them until their skin peeled off, in her words. She had a sense of adventure since her childhood. Once, she was desperate for a cool drink to quench her thirst, so she climbed a tall coconut tree and plucked a coconut, breaking it to taste the fresh, sweet juice. She laughs about how she got a beating from her mother, my great-grandmother, for her mischief. To my own disbelief, one time she even killed a snake with a stick. Despite all that life has thrown at her, she chooses to be happy and squeeze every bit of juice from life that’s possible.

Yet, when I asked her about any interesting stories in her life, her initial response was to laugh and say that nothing particularly interesting had happened to her, which says a lot about her humbleness. In many ways, she embodies the idiom “The world is my oyster”, always looking with an open mind toward anything and giving people a chance. Maybe that’s because of her childhood in a house full of forty people, where the idea of privacy is nonexistent. She often talks about making a mattress and sleeping on the floor next to her cousins, crowding each other, but connected through the common circumstance of position. All this is, of course, not forgetting her cooking. Her unniyappam and pazhambori, my favorite snacks have the most unique and refreshing flavor that stays in your mouth even after being eaten.

Yet she also personifies practicality in her everyday actions. If there’s anything I’ve learned from her, it is that you never truly have to grow up, that you should always nourish your inner child. No matter how dim the silver lining is, she can find one. My Ammooma is a tsunami, passionate yet gentle, from her voice that can be heard in the farthest corner to her stubbornness in finding tiny, private joys in even the most mundane of actions. And I can’t wait for the next time I can visit, eat her delicious snacks, and ask her more questions. More stories that are a universe within themselves in every way, the most flavorful honey, sweet and sour blending in every moment. She’s an important part of the India I know and love. The India of uncontrolled forests, natural ponds where we swim, and meals on banana leaves ripped straight from trees. An India I want to know better through language and the stories of people and the places they love. Reminding me that love is listening, a kind word, a necessary scolding, planting a garden of kindness in your heart and spreading the seeds unhesitatingly.

Motel Room

by Cami Gomes

Four hours, thirty-seven minutes, forty seconds.

You hate the way the water tastes, though it’s meant to be insipid, inodorous, and translucent. The water in this shower tastes nothing like the water on the broken flat half a town away.

Your toes touch the tub’s faucet and the shower head grazes your scalp. You aren’t tall, it’s just that everything feels smaller than before. I don’t blame you for sitting in there - legs bent, walls sweating, bruises drowning, and water running it’s gentle fingers through your hair.

A taxi (perhaps the one that got you there) inks the asphalt with its rubber. There is no way of telling it’s a taxi -of course- but the bubbles crowding your skin tell you it is. They whispers that the strangers in the taxi would remind you of me.

Four hours, thirty-seven minutes, forty seconds, and you are gone.

The steam in your motel room tastes sweet, and hides in the cracked tile. If I knew you well enough, I’d say you thought it tasted like booze and peppermint - tasted like me.

Liquor and mints, broken cars, rented rooms, champagne problems and secrets we don’t tell - us.

You used to give hitchers a ride and trash the American dream, you’d say, “karma is the way to live.” You’d watch me judge you in the radio silence - bottles in the trunk and wrappers in between the seats. Your smile flattening as the lights turned green.

They found your wallet on the pavement outside - seventeen bucks, ID, and a lifetime to forget.

Four hours, thirty-seven minutes, forty seconds, and I can’t blame you for leaving.

Clock ticking, liver running, tears filling a tub already full, and if I’d meant what I said, maybe I’d still have you.

“I Never meant to hurt you,” though I did. “Never meant to leave,” but the cars passing by made you wonder where I was. “Didn’t mean to drink and forget,” though that was exactly my intent. “I’m sorry you feel like that, but we both know I didn’t care. “Never meant to let you go.” But I don’t mean what I say, and now I know you hate my name.

Four hours, thirty-seven minutes, forty seconds, and I already know: I wish I could be happy for you.

Claire de Lune

by Iris Eisenman

You pointed at the moon but I looked at your hand

your pinky ring and glow-in-the-dark finger tattoo

drenched in the clair de lune

Teardrops carving silver streams

through your windburnt cheeks,

you called the moon beautiful and

said "she must miss her lover, the sea"

I took your hand in mine,

like chasing high tide

you drew away from me,

reaching towards the sky

she eclipsed me

you tried to see her clearly and fell off our tin pitched roof

now you gaze at me from your casket

like I'm your dear old devil moon.

September Peaches

by Iris Eisenman

Even still in September,

rotting vestiges of august-ripe peaches --The sweetest crop I'd ever seen--Lay on the grass we'd languished on that night

I fed you said peaches at peak picking time

When we met on a late summer high

"A perfectly ripe peach is already dying."

Take me back to December,

November still fresh in my mind

I remember shoes, pressed together, the most touch you'd tried

Then hands, cold and hungry

You took your time in taking mine.

You said a perfectly ripe peach is already dying?

Then I was right to nip the bud in late fall and let us die

I savored the sweet shallows of decay in the meantime

We were better as the fruit given the bite

than the September peach that falls in the night

About You

by Iris Eisenman

He left in 1991, but I came

even though twenty years had passed.

Maybe you were only waiting

for him, not for me,

not for anygirl.

I didn’t care. The river was still

there. The boy who kept you

from jumping off the bridge loved

the man who kept me

from jumping off that bridge.

Pills don’t look like emeralds — I used

to disagree with you. Tell me that

it’s a coincidence. Persuade me

to smoke cigarettes.

Teach me how to drink alcohol &

write poems at the same time.

Instruct me to stop thinking

about you, because I love irony. I like

your shoes too, but not the

blood inside. Maybe you’ve

cleaned it years ago. I believe you

haven’t.

May I dance with you?

Then I realize why my writing is so plain.

I want to dream better dreams,

they lack quality. I hope I can write

dialogues. I hope they would read

your poems that I constantly push into their arms.

Only the girl that I love and the boy

who already has a girlfriend do. Get off of

the building, I shout to

anotherboy, yet he has never

been to the top of a building.

Have I?

I read him my favorite lines

from you, and I tell him that

I don’t understand what I just read.

He traps himself in the car,

an offer declined.

By me, and

by us.

Crossed out his name but

kept yours.

I still can’t write dialogues. Cows

keep falling & I can’t tell whether the

quality has improved or the world has changed

while I’ve slept.

Maybe both. I’m trained not to hedge.

Delete the “maybe”. I wish

I can hear you telling me not to.

So that I can write dialogues.

Maybe not with you, but

with you.

thank you for reading issue two <3