my sins rot my innocent flesh
even god can’t save me now
i pray and pray and pray and pray
my knees raw from the bloodied cobblestone tiles
my tears are no longer righteous
my mother told me
when god doesn’t answer, be one
but how can i be a god
when behind my eyes all i see is darkness
though red wine spills out my mouth and veins
and men take their portions of my body
the hole of which my soul once stored faith
shelters the cold empty remains of
what once was

.
Published by Trash to Treasure Lit, April 1, 2025

Barbies wear muselet helmets
Sherlock journals clues
Cricket-stump bin clinks dismissal
Bread is hard with mouldy middle
Cheese is soft with tinted velvets
All in greens and blues

Newspapers a carpet curtain
Other signs of note
Sinks drain-weary, veiled by dishes
Door blocked from unseen militias
Ashtrays strain with liquid burden
Mangled ends afloat

Late-night fry exudes lard landslide
Interesting leads
Window signs of blunt force impact
Latches show no signs of contact
Perpetrated from the inside
Casual misdeeds

Bottles strewn with empty glasses
Evidence galore
Christmas tree is snapped, now supine
Couch chair at confusing incline
Wasting roast potato passes
Solo on the floor

Shrouded dark in grown-up questions
Case remains unsolved
Pre-teen sherlocks are defeated
Unaware that help is needed
Claiming all adult transgressions
Guilelessly involved

Knowledge comes with maturation
Young gumshoe, take heart
Heavy is the comprehension
Adulthood in wise dimension
Toughest form of education
Living will impart

Trauma is by drink upstaged
Of subterfuge beware
Brace yourself for understanding
Bottle is a sly red herring
Denouement is disengaged
You won’t find it there

Life perspective is revealing
Sooner follow pain
Core of more investigation
Drink was only compensation
Obfuscating tricky healing
Alloyed with the leaden feeling
Undiscovered chain

You were just a fledgling hawkshaw
Grant yourself some grace
Rest the blame that you digested
Drop the anger you invested
Hopping off the guilt-rage seesaw
‘Case closed’ in its place

Being back home, in my childhood room is like climbing into a time capsule. I left for college quickly, back in ‘21 and I’ve only been back here once, briefly.

My closets are still full of my old high school clothes and there are shelves that line the upper walls of my room with maybe a hundred “Disney Princess” collectable statues (my favorite is Ariel).

I have one wall space behind my bathroom door that has a hundred yellow stickies on it - reminders of old assignments and quotes like, “Do you hate drama or create drama?” and “Imagine your future.”

Everything seems carbon dated. It gives me an impeccable, knife-like sense of ennui. I want to cherish it all or burn it all, depending on the time of day. I went to take down my old Humphry Bogart and Billie Eilish posters yesterday and Kim said “Noo,” in such a sad way that I stopped.

Hold on, let’s overthink this.

I had a hard conversation today. I broke the news to my cats (Belichick and Tom Brady) that school starts at the end of the month, and I have to go back.

They took it well, I think. You know how cats are. I’ll know in a day or two, if their good will has turned to sour offense - they'll claw something up.

Belichick seems to be watching me extra closely though.
.
.
Songs for this:
Lava by Still Woozy
Can't Hardly Wait by The Replacements
.
08.01.3PM

my mother always tells me i'm too sensitive
her childhood and the experiences throughout her life
shaped her to be tough like weeds growing in a garden
not quite supposed to be there but no matter how hard you try to pull them out
they always find a way to grow back

you see, i'm more like a shard of glass myself
lost in the ocean, a little rough around the edges
but softened with every wave that crashes over me
until nothing but a sliver remains

i come from a line of women who paved their own way into this world
they were born with a fire to survive so bright
it managed to light entire generations up until this point
passed from grandmother, to mother, to daughter, to -
wait a second, it's supposed to be my turn now

i close my eyes and try to visualize
crimson and tangerine flames within me
but find myself greeted with nothing but the black on the back of my eyelids
or is it just coal that i inherited?
dying embers being the specks of light that poke through

in all honesty, i don't think i was ready to be born into this world yet
the doctors told my mom she could not have a natural birth
because i refused to turn myself upside down
inside her womb like i was supposed to

almost like it was my way of telling them, wait -
i need a little longer
where it is warm, where it is safe
where there is still room for me to grow

give me a moment longer to tend to these embers
light them back into the fire that is supposed to be my birthright
that is supposed to run red within my blood

instead i open my eyes and find the greenish blue within my veins
like the salt water that shaped me

no trace of the passionate desire to survive
which leaves me feeling like i am lacking
i thought i was meant to be sharp like them
but i have come to learn that i'm not a sliver of glass
melting into nothingness with each wave that crashes over me

instead i've found that i am the ocean
the black behind my eyelids is the vastness, too deep to see
soft enough to flow through obstacles but solid enough to transform
whatever finds itself within the depths of me

my mother always tell me i'm too sensitive
but that doesn't mean i'm weak
my strength lies in my fluidity
which ebbs and flows like the sea

We spent at least 15 minutes in the parking lot,
Everyday.
Itching in the grass and making up arguments.
Waiting for my mom to pick me up from your house after school,
Spraying mist out the water hose at each other and into the sky.
Over invested in card games and extra-murals.
Got locked out of your club penguin account.
I lied to my mom about the pickup time,
So we could play pool a bit longer.
All that nothing might have been everything.
Wait for the bus with me sometime again.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                 The Mysterious World of Azalea

If I were a child, this would be a happy place
A hidden leaf-mould world, all darkly green
Summery green beneath the shaded sun
Between the roots, beneath the leaves, alone

If I were a child, this would be a happy place
A brand-new comic book, some army men
A Roy Rogers cap pistol without any caps
A plastic Tarzan swinging from branch to branch

If I were a child…but alas, I’m not -
I’m pruning back limbs and checking for rot