Look Closer

By Rosaline Lo

A Written Apology

By Ojas Ransingh (18)

Nothing ever seems to change; He
Seeps to through the ridges of twine
Intertwined yet alone {velvet}
Hath Such divinity heath no lore to me
The eyes of stun, velvet, and adore
And I swear I’m fine
I’m the horrible mistake they made
I’m gonna fuck this up
You whisper for help {velvet}
Take this future with me
Trying to kill this fire
While our skin gets it wrong
You blew it!
I never could say the thing I meant
I’ll never forget
The house always wins
With eyes that haze
The evidence is all to taste
Me and the sound of metal {velvet}

Let Me Love You

By Abrish Fatima (13)

Let me love you,
Let me hold you,
Let me mark you mine,
Let me become the measure by which you recognize love.
Show me the parts you hide in daylight,
and let me love them beneath the moon.
Show me the scars your silence keeps,
and let me love them even more.
Let me love you—
Let me set a standard for love.
Let me love you till the death of stars,
No, that ends.
Let me love you till the last sunset,
No, that ends too.
Let me love you till the universe collapses and is born again,
No, still just a bigger ending.
Let me love you till maggots empty out my heart,
No—it can never be “till.”
A love that counts down is still counting.
So let me have you,
Praise you,
Extol you,
Dote on you,
Admire you,
FOREVER.
No, forever’s still a limit
though so tall.
So let me love you
without one.

i always end up back here

By Serena Jia (15)

to lie down, unaware
to be blissfully crying
sobbing with uncontrollable tears 
over that mundane desire:
to be chosen, to be loved

to not question the aching
because it’s all that persists within
to live inside your body, to be,
not see what you must be
that is if choice was within my will

but i am the narrator that directs me
who craves the ache like i crave the unattainable
it exists on the surface where we lie
but further i go to float above
until tears become rain falling from the sky

i cry for my inability to cry
to cry about a boy that could love
where real droplets land humbly
on the bedsheets right below me

and as those real tears fall
he’ll “hug me and kiss me softly,
whispering sweet words in my ear,”
until there is nothing but stupid white
and the primal urge for head pats.

but here i lie
crying about my inability to cry
fake tears wiped by a fake boy
yet they’ve stained the bedsheets
right below me

Living As Both

By Miranda Zheng (15)

I am from a generation of travellers,
moving from land to land.
Always looking for the perfect place to settle.
Settlers for each new place — foreign and unknown.
Each choice a risk like a sacrifice.

A floral and peachy scent brings us home,
A piece of origin within our souls.
Cultures mixing is a pot of flavors, diverse and unique.
Each tasting special and familiar.
The fragrance of jasmine tea fills the air,
A subtle sweetness as I sip, bringing me joy.
The steam rises like memories.

Maple leaves hug the branches of strong trees,
their scarlet veins reflecting me.
Rooted, yet reaching.
They glow with spirit from the North.
The beauty of autumn surrounding me,
I feel the breeze fly past me as air fills me.
Faint clouds like dreams in the sky.

Night falls, covering the brightness of day.
Silence spreads softly across the skies — not a sound to be heard.
Simple legends from the past reminding me of my culture.
The pictures dance on each page as if coming to life — waking up from a century’s slumber.
In the quiet swish of rustling leaves
and the warm sip of jasmine,
orchids sigh softly as I live as both,
finding my home.

Beneath the Floorboards

By Aryana Suri (13)

I awoke trapped inside a suffocatingly small room surrounded by the cluttered geometry of plastic drawers, discarded winter shoes, heavy wool coats, and pungent cleaning supplies. The air was thick enough to taste, heavy with an unpleasant, musty stench that strongly reminded me of ancient decay. Suddenly, heavy footsteps thundered directly overhead. Each individual crash vibrated violently through the wooden boards above, completely shaking my entire reality as if a terrifying, localized earthquake had just begun right there. A chaotic web of black electrical wires snaked across the dusty floor neighboring me, so incredibly tangled that anyone could get lost simply trying to follow them to their source. Nearby, an old desk lamp blared with a harsh light so blinding it forced me to look away, turning toward the rhythmic sound of water dripping from a slow leak somewhere in the damp shadows behind me. Then, a mini dehumidifier buzzed loudly alive, blowing a sudden, unwelcome gust of clean, artificial air directly toward my face. Underneath the chemical smell of the room, a sharp, grounding scent of pine and sandalwood radiated from the surrounding unpainted wood, intense enough to make my aching head throb. Desperate for any immediate escape, I ventured deeper down into the narrowing darkness of the closet until there was absolutely nothing left but pitch black. Suddenly, I violently collided with a small mouse. We crashed together into a low storage drawer, and BANG! The violent impact made it feel like the whole world woke up at once. As I reeled backward into the dark, I felt a low, sharply slanted, oppressive wooden ceiling pressing hard against the top of my head. This scraped space suddenly did not feel like a normal room at all, the suffocating confinement made me feel exactly like a wild animal trapped deep inside a dark bear den. OUCH! I struck my forehead against the abusive wooden ceiling so incredibly hard that a sudden realization finally shattered through my confusion. I was not actually trapped in a mysterious dungeon or a wild bear den, I was merely trapped beneath the staircase. I quickly boiled upright, leaving my small room forever.

The Little Girl

By Jasreen Gill (13)

I can’t find the little girl inside me anymore.
Where did she go?
I checked all the places she used to be:
the red, burning hot, playground slide she loves,
the deep end of the pool that smells like it has nostalgia woven through it.
She snuck in without a lifejacket again.
I checked the kindergarten classroom she refused to leave,
her little pink bed,
but she’s not there.
Where did she go?
When did she go missing?
Maybe it was when I was so focused on surviving, I forgot to live,
maybe it was last week,
or maybe it was years ago, and I’ve just been making her up in my head.
I’m not quite sure.
Maybe she’s still there, and I just can’t see her.
I should check again.
I need to find her,
and her tiny sweater with flowers all over it,
and her purple headband,
and her mismatched socks.
Where did she go?
What if she’s the one who convinced me:
one more episode,
one more album,
one more conversation,
one more day?
When I finally listened, did she leave?
I’m not sure.
Where did she go?
I’m sorry,
but I just can’t find her.
I’m sorry,
but you can’t meet her.
When I go to the old playground,
I see her swinging on the swings, her knees scraped,
I run over to her,
but when I get to her,
she’s gone.
Again.

Ascending

By Arianna Tavaria (13)

I am rising,
                floating
           in a sea 
    of tranquility.
It clears my mind and steadies my heart
as if a soft hum were vibrating through it,
settling my every thought.
It pulls me afloat,
until the oasis is blanketed in gleaming gold.
I am rising,
                floating
        higher
    and higher
in an everlasting sea of peace.
It cradles me, 
holding me 
like the sun’s embrace upon the horizon.
It makes my spirit light,
so steady and so calm 
that it feels as if my soul were a feather,
rising toward paradise.
I am rising,
floating in a sea of tranquility
so vast there are no boundaries,
         no worries,
     just peace.
I float higher and higher…
until I fill my lungs with crisp fresh air
and only then,
do I finally feel at ease. 

The Pier: A Broken Soul

By Sanjana Karthik (22)

I am the pier,
Afraid to be remembered as simple and mere.
I remember that feeling all too well,
To be branded as something replaceable; easy to sell.
I experience the world’s emotions without a taste of my own,
As I endlessly eye the gentle sand
Drifting and being blown.
The ocean’s water is persistent in reaching the shores,
As it caresses the sand it deeply adores.
When the word ‘significant’ is brought to mind,
I wish to be recalled and brought to life.
Remembered from a vantage point of a million years,
As more than old wooden planks
Trodden by your heels.
I hold so many stories, a piece of everyone’s life,
I wish people felt they owed me more than a quick visit once or twice.
Even as time dissipates, I feel their grip on my heart,
As the courtesy of nostalgia, make me wish they’d come back.
Without hesitation, I was walked on every day,
Now I wait for a single footstep to come my way.
The smithereens of my heart still ache for you,
Alive with the hope that you may come back out of the blue.

A Wilted Wallflower

By Kyleigh Chaulk (17)

I’m falling through the cracks in my sanity,
I feel this pain forever, infinitely.
‘Cause you’re mine in my mind but he’s high and you’re drunk,
And I’m confused, and I start to hate love.
I’ve tried observing silently,
Like a flower on a tree
but I wilted trying to come alive.
We accept the love that we think we deserve,
but god, I think I need to love myself first. 

Secrets Like A Sunday Dress

By Abdulazeez Barakat Kemi (18)

Daddy don’t wanna see me with a boy
Mummy don’t wanna see me with a guy
(See me with a guy)
Daddy don’t wanna see me with a boy
Mummy don’t wanna see me with a gurll
(See me with a gurll)
The hostel gate is locked before the clock can strike ten,
Watching my reflection in the glass of the window pane.
I’m just undergraduate 200lv I’m sorry Alex,
Between the lecture halls and the prayer mats,
I’m losing my shadow in the concrete flats.
I’m sorry Alex,
Can’t explain the weight of the second year stress,
Or the secrets that I wear like a Sunday dress,
It’s daddy, mummy..
(Back to daddy don’t wanna see me with a boy)
Daddy don’t wanna see me with a boy
Mummy don’t wanna see me with a guy
(See me with a guy)
Daddy don’t wanna see me with a boy
Mummy don’t wanna see me with a gurll
(See me with a gurll)
I’m just undergraduate 200lv I’m sorry Alex!
Between the lecture halls and the prayer mats!
I’m losing my shadow in the concrete flats!
I’m sorry Alex!
Can’t explain the weight of the second year stress!
Or the secrets that I wear like a Sunday dress!
It’s daddy, mummy..!
Daddy… mummy…
(Daddy don’t wanna see me with a boy)
Mmm, 200 level…
(Sorry Alex…)

To Remember

By Reha Kaur Rao (13)

To Remember
What does it truly mean to remember?
Does it mean to hold onto a memoir, or a piece of the past? 
People say to remember someone, something, one thing, just try to think about the memories you’ve had with them. 
But what if you can’t remember his face, his tone, his smile. Recognize the way he spoke, or recall the way he laughed. 
It hurts me to remind myself of what I forgot, forgot about the person I loved, cherished, and shared time with. 
Feeling pain, eager to help when I know it’s too late. Does that mean I can’t truly remember?

I Am Me

By Aryana Kapoor (13)

I’m not the best
But not the worst
Sometimes it feels like even though I try my hardest, it’s never enough 
But it’s fine.
The pressure and the anxiety pile on me like boulders that I drag around.
I’ll just deal with it.
What if this? 
What if that? 
Worst scenarios play in my head and scare me whenever I want to stand out or be myself.
Sometimes I look at other people and wonder why I can’t be more like them. 
Why can’t I be as smart, as athletic, as confident, or as good at the things other people do?
“Your not enough,” 
is what the voice inside my head will say. I block it out with an 
“I’m fine” or an “I’m okay.”
But maybe I don’t always have to be okay.
Maybe it’s okay to struggle. 
Maybe it’s okay to not be the best at something. 
I’m still learning and I’m still growing.
As I grow older, I am starting to understand that I might not be the smartest person, 
 I might not be the best athlete. 
I won’t let that limit me from getting better and one day being enough.
Not for my friends.
Not for my classmates.
For me.
I’m tired of comparing myself to everyone else and feeling like I’m falling behind 
Everyone has their own path, and maybe mine doesn’t have to look like theirs.
I am not you.
I am me
Being different is not a bad thing
It just means I am brave enough to be myself.

House of Strangers

By Arden Howard (22)

There are strangers on the bus
I see their faces as I am, 
untainted by personality or mind.
My mother takes me to see her in the mirror.
I see her faces as I am, 
unfeeling of her senses, unknowing of form.
My mother takes me to see her in the mirror and
I see someone I have never seen before.
Unfeeling of their senses, unknowing of form
there are families on the bus, there are old men
I see someone I have always seen before.
Mothers, talking to himself, businessmen,
there are families on the bus, there are old men
there is a door left open I have passed
fathers, talking to herself, children in suits,
and I have found myself in a stranger’s dining room.
There is a door left open I have passed
my mother, clinking fork on plate, dragging, screech
and I have found myself in a stranger’s dining room
in a stranger’s body, stranger house.
My mother, clinking fork on plate, dragging, screech
I have never seen before, I am a traveler
in a stranger’s body’s stranger house
I see a face, I see a body
I have never seen before, I am a traveler
untainted by personality or mind
I see a face, I see a body,
there are strangers in the house.

The Next Morning

By Gwyneth Ge (15)

dawn breaks like an overboiled egg
i unroll as quiet as I can
through a half-bitten air
the corkboard seared last night still smells
of my mother’s failing hand
the grime of wood in a hollow
warm trench
my dry empty throat 
even as the morning tap flows
i pick up 
brittle tissues on my pillow
orthodontics case 
phone half-sunk into couch
remnants in the dusty light
stepping softly,
i turn the doorknob

A Day Without Patriarchy

By Sargun Rai (13)

I’m heading out of the house, wearing a tank top and jean shorts. Shoulders bare, legs showing. No fear of someone “checking me out” or catcalling me while I walk to the mall without a trusted male by my side. I look around me, no man batting an eye at a 13 year old girl, let alone staring her down as she walks by, eyes on her chest rather than her face. I am not afraid of anyone following me to the mall, where I’ll meet more friends (that are girls) who do not need an older woman or man with them to accompany them, to ensure their safety. I do not feel scared when I’m walking home, and I don’t look back to see if a man hiding his face may be behind me, following me home at 9:26 PM. I’m free, and I’m safe. Safe to be free. Then I wake up from my blissful sleep, awakened by an alarm screeching in my ear. “Time to go to school, follow a dress code that enforces rules on girls telling them to cover up rather than teaching boys how to behave”, it says to me. However, in this world, I have to cover up, because there will be a man behind me, waiting to pounce on me like the prey I am. I have to walk with a big group of people, with a trusted adult, before night falls. Because the later it gets, the smaller my group is, the less I am wearing, the more vulnerable I become. I wish it wasn’t this way. I wish we could all be free. I wish there really could be a day without patriarchy. 

Metamorphosis

By Amier Alimasi (15)

Runa cursed under her shaky breath as the temple walls began to shake, causing her to take in just how perilous of a situation this is. Despite her fear, she pushed forward, very admirable all things considered, the vessel must be courageous enough to go through the obstacles. Runa lifted her torch up high with might, revealing the rest of the narrow passageway. She takes a sigh of relief and pulls out her journal from her backpack, reminding her just how important the treasure at the core of the temple is, like her very own light at the end of the tunnel. And with heavy grace, my very own duty is to ensure that the reward will surpass anything in the mortal realm. Runa strapped her backpack on and continued her journey. With determination, she moved onwards. An unidentifiable amount of time later, Runa stops dead in her tracks. She squinted and noticed a mural on the wall. The mural has always been a favourite of mine. A previous vessel created this mural, in more detail the mural involves the process of the beautiful actions of metamorphosis, a caterpillar becoming a butterfly. This seems to have shaken Runa to the core, an unexpected reaction. Regardless, Runa is approaching the core. After eons of nothing but being trapped as a relic sought out by adventures it is truly nice to see a vessel so determined. As Runa approached the final room, something beautiful happened. Tears ran down her face, rejuvenating the life in her soul that was once lost. She began to approach, but her hand began to shake. An unexpected reaction, but the truth is that it matters not. Runa begins to drop the relic, but that vessel has reached its end. As Runa left the temple, a new era dawned for us.

The Next Time

By Midu Nguyen (15)

They always tell you to try again.
So I do.
I walk into another room with my stomach twisting itself into knots. I smile when I’m supposed to smile. I speak clearly. I go above and beyond. I try not to think about the last time, or the time before that, or all the times I went home wondering what I did wrong. Then I wait.
And eventually, the answer comes.
No.
Sometimes it is a gentle no. Sometimes it is a “not this time,” or a “we decided to go in another direction.” Sometimes there is nothing at all. Just silence, and the slow realization that the results won’t change.
So I try again.
Because everyone says that’s what you’re supposed to do.
They say rejection builds character. They say the right opportunity will come eventually. They say every no brings you closer to a yes. But nobody tells you what happens when you stop believing them.
Nobody tells you how exhausting it is to keep knocking on doors that keep closing.
I start wondering if maybe I’m supposed to become someone else. Someone better. Someone easier to choose. I practice more. I prepare more. I become so good at trying that I forget what it felt like to simply want something.
And then, one day, I get another no.
I stare at it for a long time. I expect it to hurt the way the others did. I expect that familiar feeling. The sinking, the shame, the voice asking what is wrong with me.
But this time, there is something else.
Relief.
Not because I wanted to fail. Not because I’ve stopped caring. But because, for the first time, I realize that I don’t have to spend my whole life proving that I deserve a yes.
Maybe giving up isn’t always weakness.
Maybe sometimes it is just putting something down after carrying it for too long.
I can try again tomorrow. I can try somewhere else. I can even decide that I don’t want this anymore. And none of those choices erase how hard I tried.
So I close the message.
I don’t cry. I don’t start another application. I don’t make another promise to myself that next time will be different.
I just sit there.
And for once, I let the silence be enough.
Because maybe the question was never, how many times can I keep going?
Maybe it was, when do I get to choose what comes next?
And for the first time, the answer is mine.