GraphiteNotes

        imagine    a city that sings. imagine a restless night,    a rain-washed sky, a little cafe on the corner.    and there you are, college-age sappho    penning poems in a macbook, blue jeans    ripped at the knee. neon light flickers.    your fingers dance, your feet tap to the    rhythm on the radio, your eyes are far away.    your shoulder blades cast shadows on your    stardust-freckled skin. you are lost in poetry.    you are beautiful        beyond words.

मैं तुम्हें कुछ बताने वाली हूँ                                  can you imagine voices on the radio a little softer                                       slightly more blue, slightly more panicked                                         maybe, honest for once. can you imagine                                          spreading the butter on your bread and not feeling hungry                                                       or guilty as you chew and swallow it. can you imagine        

i’ve been up to my knees in river since you left and honestly the cold’s numbed everything- even the stars have winked to hush me though the howls keep tearing through; i wonder how much sadness you can fit into a paper throat before it dissolves. it’s been weeks since i’ve drawn enough breath or reached out to touch a human hand: i think i will rot here sandwiched between grass and sky, the weight of maybe crushing this chest until it bursts.

dread, despair, and disgust suffuses across my synapses as the sun intrudes into my darkened room guilting me for taking the day for granted I pull the covers over my head cocooning my body my pulse increases, my chest hurts, my stomach churns, and my mind spins at the thought of exposing myself panic overwhelms me like a wave crashing down caught off guard fear rushes into my lungs instead of air the thought of facing my energetic and happy co-workers terrifies me the voice in my head cruelly whispers they will find you out they will see your thankless shadow they will sense your dis-ease the sun then glares as if to ask me how d

Picket signs held high, their message to the sky; this is what democracy looks like. Marching down streets, exercising our right to assembly; this is what democracy looks like. Chanting “hey-hi, hey-ho, these corrupt politicians have got to go”; this is what democracy looks like. Rallying speakers share their dream of what America could be, and together as we stand and sing our country’s star-spangled theme, I remember that I’m a part of a democracy,   where voices should be heard and people should be free. This is what it means to be an American. So raise your voice, join the fight, celebrate your human

bleached tangerine hair and   aggressive queer vibes, rainbow capes and            ripped denim, flannels and                            boys in lipstick                     boys with mascara           girls with suspenders and                                brown boots – we took the city in our hands and                clutched tight; said                               “our palms cannot burn                             because this is what we’re made of – ” and there was noise and shouting and us, existing               unapologetic & angry and                                authentic, it tastes

They call me brute. I'm permitted to chant,    but they won't let me Sing. They've confused non-agility for    inflexibility—         my belly enfolds the earth;         my throat trills at the stars;         my eyes embrace the cays            of the sea. I am an omnivore,    yet they will only feed me leaves.

I the city lights        burn out at the ends like a candle          or a cigarette stub and you cannot sleep.                                          tired girl in flannels or                                                cardigans with your mascara smeared and                                                      your hands shaking the ceiling could fall in         but you wouldn’t care                                  you met a girl  & she was beyond pretty. II          no ashtray for a daffodil;             no pillbox for a bisexual. you can’t sleep            and the television’s broken  so you wr

    “You know that’s just not realistic, Lym,” says my father.    I had just told him that I want to be an explorer when I grow up. Yeah, I know it’s a long shot. My magical abilities aren’t strong enough, even when stretched to their full potential. But that’s what I want to do. I like to go out in the forest that’s near my house and just look at all the lush plants and colorful animals: the Fellid trees with their deep blue bark, purple leaves, and red flowers, the Ors with their softly glowing, golden petals; the bobs with their turquoise and orange feathers, and the vildils with their soft, smoo

They loved their garden; Mother and Daughter would spend Hours in the sun. Behind their house was Green dotted with red, yellow, Pink and countless more. Mother loved roses; Daughter preferred irises. They planted with care. They watched the sun rise While blowing dandelions, And mimicked at dusk. Their birdbaths brought in Winged visitors who were Greeted with bird seed. All meals were eaten On a polka-dot blanket; Nothing but home-cooked. Catching butterflies, Looking for funny-shaped clouds, Climbing the oak tree. They ran, danced and sang, Never tiring of their Love for each other. Daughter did not think That her