the unspoken


Anomalous Perceptions

By Yeshe Rai

It’s much easier to listen than to be heard,
so I assemble a wide-eyed, open expression,
and shelve all the blaring thoughts
to the dead wood walls of my mind.
I am an expert at starting sentences,
horrendous at finishing them. How can I

dear margot

By Yeshe Rai

you open all the blinds for moonlight
to make a place at your dining table
the radical yellowed pages say “liberty is an illusion”
& you must agree,
crouched on your cold chair in a t-shirt
& underwear. eating tomato soup.

Sold to the Highest Bidder

By Jawad Alazzeh

It seemed clear at the close of a lengthy conversation,
In the cool heat of late Spring.
We have long mourned,
The colonial appropriation of the ancient East.

Sol Borrego

By Caroline Stickney

Heat becomes a god faster than
anything else – agave creeps up, bursting
like a yolk cradled under the tongue.

Walk as far as you can and get nowhere.
Scales thrash; sand unwinds lazily.

Light, Color, Reflection

By Hailey Kasten

Colors dance across frosty ground
Golden sunlight reaching far corners
Dusty shadows filling unnseen crevises
Painting the land with magic and wonder


By Katie Chung

I have tried to paint this beautifully
in swirling pastels of childhood
like Vaseline over a camera lens
hazes of slow-motion imagery
if it’s naive to believe in changing the world
then I am still a fool
a child’s helpless grasp on hope
in a woman’s intuition

Aboard the Censorship

By Daniel Joon Lee

There are thoughts I have that
I block from escaping my lips.
Sometimes they try to pry them open,
start a mutiny aboard the ship
riding the waves that roll along my tongue.

word vomit

By bethany lines

no words. even they do not like to stick around to save their sanity. i am not like you,
but i’ll give you children
i’ll try
just promise you’ll make a real thing out of me; a real useful thing. one that talks. and let me hunt for
myself. and for every thing

Unexpected Side-Effects from the Cure for Lonliness

By Sophia Liggett

I can still remember the first time I felt true devastation- it was the 28th of January 2019. I’d been keeping two pet mice for almost six months at that point, and I rarely thought about anything else.


By Sia Mehta

I can’t grapple with – understand, process, comprehend – the fact that I am, by all evidence against me, very mentally ill. I am sick. I am weak and guilty. There is something – a variety of things – wrong, here. My mother is published in numerous medical journals.

the unread letter

By Ananya Kashyap

I. The sun dipped below the horizon; I clutched my grandma’s hand a bit tighter. She had turned sixty-seven that day, I was a mere ten. We strolled through the old neighbourhood, the streets lined with trees bearing shiuli flowers, their fragrant aroma hanging in the air.


By Joseph Shonkwiler

A man walked down cold, desolate streets wearing nothing but a patched up hoodie and ill-fitting boxers. He didn’t know how he had gotten those clothes. He wasn’t sure how he would explain them to his wife. Admittedly, he probably wouldn't have to. Little chance she would care.

Dancing in a Fight for Myself

By Hanna Cochran

When I dance for the kitchen window, the mirror it becomes in the dark, I become shapeless. Like my soul feels. No longer a female body—or male—but an artform; my representation of authenticity.

a guide to facing the world

By Eden Amaryllis

leave your house for a while,
traipse around and think that
you’d rather be at home.
remind yourself the world has meaning
even though
you don't believe it.
work tirelessly,
rest after it’s too late.
note that privilege comes with guilt
feel guilty

If the mind is a palace...

By L.C. Herbst

And I’d make myself sick if I was another person watching my thoughts. It’s a blurry and slow-moving
compilation of coincidences stacked on top of eachother: sticky teacups stacked on a desk, junk mail

unable to say goodbye

By Lexi Newsom

the two of you walk around the lake,
trying to balance on the familiar, unsteady ground.
around you, icicles hang from trees like glass ornaments,
swaying lightly in the wind.
they’re on the edge of breaking off the branches
but they don’t.


By Olivia Peters

Little calloused hands climb up a grandfather clock
Pink cheeks and huffy breaths of exertion
We try to pull ourselves up the very same trees
That lightning struck down years ago
I don’t see my dad as much as I did back then

salt bridge

By Caroline Stickney

i’m stuck on the edge of something and i’m sure i’ll find it under the waves that tug me like a hook in the eye and i know there’s something where the sky ends but i’m not sure what this pain is supposed to bring me closer to or what stain this salt is supposed to scrub or even if this is the lon


By Caroline Stickney

take the knife and never use it –
press mercy into your skin and
hope it’s enough to fling the stars’
light back. grow into your teeth
and remember all their faces.
open your mouth and drink down
every drop. can’t you see?
you are nothing until you are wanted.

Cosmic Hypocrisy

By Wyatt Vaughn

Have I ever told you that
Once, I reached my arm
In the sky, to try
To pinch a distant star—

I wanted to squeeze it,
To secrete its sweat
And watch it drop from light years away onto my tongue

From my Perspective

By Nate Cooper

I know nothing but darkness
Until my stomach is ripped open
The light turns on and they look inside
Give me nutrients and then take them away
Steal my belongings
And drink my blood
I haven't slept since birth, I am so afraid
For one day I will break down

heaven is the woods behind my childhood home

By Madeleine Kimball

when i go:
scatter my ashes in that clear cold stream.
let the current take me down,
to that small place,
where god stains her cheeks with river-clay
and cicadas scream sweet hymnals.
where life is raw and quiet and sublime
and the worms find heaven in

Love Ghazal

By Kayla Brethauer

Two sleeves brush. In a single touch, it blossoms: love.
Wide-eyed, whisper anything in my ear, I’ll call it love.

Barefoot on a pedestal, white lace, floor-length mirror.
If you don’t cry when I walk down the aisle, is it love?

The Fishbowl Theory

By Chloe Schoenfeld

A fish doesn’t know what water is
But I think the water is full of-

You need to clean your room, honey.

The answers don’t matter nearly

-I know, I will.

As much as the act of asking

A Guitar, a Campfire, and a Spaceship

By Isaac McKeag

Whistle a tune by the fire with me friend
There's whole worlds out there,
but right now you're on this one...
So take it in

Freedom is only a tool,
Soon, you'll see that.
Timber giants stand among us here,
They cannot walk, but their spirits are reinless

elevator thoughts

By Emily Natanova

i step onto the elevator
and push for floor 12
a woman in a black dress rushes in and asks for 13
she has red-hair and her perfume smells nice
we wait in silence for the doors to close and begin our ascent

Things That I Feel Guilty For

By Linnea Heiny

Things that I feel guilty for:

First Confession

By Maria Tan

Red scratchy fabric lining the confessional
Imprinted a checkerboard into my knees;
My spine stacked upright,
Leading to heaven, or down into hell;
Guilt or shame pulling my head down;
Tears would’ve fallen on my baby cheeks
If the church hadn’t been as cold as hell was hot;

The Woman, The Daughter

By Cady Stevens

Auburn curls waltz in my eyes, flames in my earliest memories.
I remember most parts fondly.
Matching blue eyes, struggles inherited
from your mother.
We struggled existing
as the proper mother and daughter.


By Eloise Arnold

I stare at the pavement
And pray it turns back time
I hope the concrete changes
And I’m back where I was before
When I belonged