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 Aug 2014 Kayla Bellinger
Matthew
You choose a sepia filter
To match your timeless visage
To match the clothes you've wandered into today
But it is not a selfie.

Your eyes pierce them through their iPhone screens
Your smile is casually not directed towards anyone in particular
Your outfit is recklessly on point
And it is not a selfie.

It is a punch in the gut
to everyone who has ever
said you are not good enough.
It is not a selfie.

The wings by your eyes will go out of style.
The dye in your hair will wash down the drain.
The clothes will wear out and you will take pictures again.

But you have fabricated a moment.
You are smiling towards yourself.
Slap your image onto every social media you know
Next to the supermodels and Kardashians and words of self hatred
This is the fulcrum with which you will lever the world.
This is not a selfie.
 Aug 2014 Kayla Bellinger
Morgan
i drank a bottle of wine in bed/that does not make me romantic/i slept for sixteen hours today and i am still so ******* tired/i drove around my neighborhood chain smoking with burning eyes/i stood in my swimming pool and starred at the sky and wondered if i was losing my ******* mind/i am not peacefully sad;there is no such thing/i moved to a city where i thought id finally get to know me/i ran home bandaged and shaking five months later/i keep swearing to myself im gonna get better/i used to believe me/but i dont know how to anymore/my pain is not a ******* trend
If you told me God crafted you in Her image,
I would go to church on Sundays.
I always thought
I was made of concrete,
but it turns out my walls
are paper thin.
Paper burns
and you set me on fire,
so now I'm nothing
but dust and ash,
damp with salt water
and scattered by sighs.
I hope your clothes
smell of smoke
that makes you remember,
and I hope it makes you choke,
and struggle to breathe,
just like I did,
so that one day you'll realise
that you shouldn't play with matches.
The air hangs heavy today
After last nights banging of the drum
Its strobe light pyrotechnics
The awe inspiring deluge
That washed even criminality from the streets
The old horse-chestnut tree who's shade I often steal
Proudly exposes its now swollen spiky fruit
We sigh together, this old friend and I  
Another summer will soon come to pass
Let us drink its final rays
A quick check of the weather report confirms my suspicions.
The comic convention
has cardboard cutouts of
all of the main characters of
Harry Potter.

Harry,
Ron,
Hermione,
etc.
All motionless in a river of people,
glossy but worn down,
bathed in cold white halogen.

And one by one,
the cosplayers—
the Harrys
Rons
Hermiones,
etc.

Have their pictures taken
with the cutouts,
one cardboard cutout cut out
and replaced with a real human being.

Being human, we
crave companionship,
fear solitude,
crave solitude,
fear companionship.

We try to avoid becoming cardboard
cutouts of ourselves, but sometimes
a retreat into inanimacy
is what the animus needs.

The cosplayers continue to shuffle forward in line
each waiting to pose for a selfie.  Each
politely smiling at the living Harry Potter characters around them,

but not striking up a conversation.
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