a shadow sits in a meadow. you can’t see its face or its arms or legs or anything. […]
ley lines (/leɪˈlaɪnz/) noun a network of straight lines thought by pseudo-archaeologists to connect sacred sites. i. The […]
Bury me in that red-rocks desert, Where the lilies don’t grow And the mountains cast a shadow On […]
It feels like every poem I’ve ever written has, in some way or another, been about spring. Ironically, […]
In the rain, we have potential –It’s where all things come to take root– while running water, rings […]
This time of year, I think of the mornings when I wake up next to you. The sun […]
The sun set, my skin burnt red, the beetles had gone from my brain. A porch light turns […]
can i be the bud of a new leaf still curled inwards on the branches of a tree […]
after “Looking for Ram, Looking for Allah” by Manash Firaq Bhattacharjee Thousands of lifetimes ago, I was named […]
i am laying in the grass and thinking about the simplest of things: a ladybug in my palm—the […]
Even as a writer, there is not a word in the English alphabet to describe the pride I feel for BrainScramble.
This box is my means of vision and communication and a newfound, intrinsic piece of me. Others experience me through it – so why shouldn’t it be considered an extension of my being?
When I receive the same words, I take reprieve in the knowledge that someone, even if it’s not me, especially because it’s not me, knows that I will keep fighting.
My prevailing prayer and five star review: I will return again.
But I don’t fear what’s behind my door anymore; I don’t recognize the footsteps walking past it. The sound of my palace crumbling was once deafening; now it lingers quietly in the background. I look forward to silence, for once.
Both of us sitting, static, waiting to be cut open and consumed.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she inhaled, her breath shaking. “You’re going to die doing this, do you understand?”
When I first saw the Abounaddara Shorts Exhibit at BAMPFA early in the first semester, it was a […]