I Write

I write to examine, to holdthe world with its beautifully jagged pieces between my thumb and forefinger, and  rub them smooth like a pocketed worry stone. I write to create, to give birth to new worlds, to give characters life with the stroke of a pen, to treat the page asa surrogate for my traitorous womb. 

Clementine

content warning : heavy sexual references I’m not sure when it started. I can’t pin it exactly. The burning is in my chest again – the smoke is filling up my lungs again and I feel more trapped than free. Love is meant to be free.  I can feel you digging your thumbs into me

constellations of love

I want to swallow the sunbite into it like a fresh applesweet like your kiss on my lips the only place my feelings hideis in my mother’s good night songsI echo her features in the mirrorlike a scream calling backfrom mountain tops my tears give birth to the moonrip open the night sky like a

Fortune

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Our living space’s shrinking, ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎earth’s going

Coffee

Take it black, high octane only.Feel the full weight of it as notes of hazelnut tightrope across your tongue. These are the magic beans Jack spoke of. Drink‎‎‎ㅤㅤ and walk among giants. Jennifer Fox is a western New York native and MFA candidate at Lindenwood University. She is a staff reader for Thirty West Publishing

Warpaint

Few gentle touches,chosen from infantsare a will to imperil.Caught up in a stage,of swirling advancesto forgive the messin cries and wailing.They are all daubedin various warpaints.Laying in possessionof an outback spacebeside a muddy river.Vapors recorded,will come and go.They beseech you,to acquire warpaint.They’ll get broken,then become clean.They aimed arrows,to cure their disease. Michael Igoe, city boy,

The Katherine Factor

On pain of first lightwe made the contactin sudden misgiving.Glancing at imagesof the ages of faces.Something is happening,after what came in April.It’s easy to see them,as soon as they whirlthe jinxes in glassesalong with a takeoverof the rosier witnesses.The timeline specks,whose detailed magic stained the pages. Michael Igoe, city boy, neurodiverse, Chicago now Boston. Numerous

An almost normal Friday, Death sitting on my couch, eating Cheetos

content warning : death The text message was odd ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ You doing alright today? 830 in

Midterm Exam Questions

For the following sections, please choose the correct answer.  1. All of the below are true, except:  a. A binary out of sorts b. Pink, blue, yellow, and green c. Self-actualization d. Grass humming softly as you sleep e. What the therapist said  2. Fill in the blanks using the word bank provided:  a. On Good Fridays, we wear

Plath’s last journal, tossed by ted

Her last one — the mom oneneed it want to see it read it seep deep between itslines gulp down what solace i can findin words our sylvia leftalive for usmoms who spiral round this lonelyrut of repetition. Oakley Ayden (she/her) is an autistic, bisexual writer from North Carolina. Her poems appear or are forthcoming