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Quakes wake between crevices

Standing staring at the spiral staircase

About to journey up

Two minutes - three


Hesitant smiles within

With gusts of joy

Three minutes - four


I decide to stay

Nothing to do

Four minutes - five


The steps are spiral

I’d much prefer straight

Six minutes - much better to stare


So I take the straight

One minute to gate

Seven minutes - up


L. Dagger

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Roaring of water

Thoughts fill my head. They churn as if my mind was a screaming river.

My hands press against the throb that only wants to cause me harm.


Thoughts push into my skull, the echos slowly start to turn into actions as the flow of the water starts to drown out any other noise.

My chest aches as my hand reaches for the gleaming silver that lays just a few feet away. Its weighs.

As I extend my hand, the roaring of the water gets louder. It screaches and hollars telling me that this is right.

As I press down.

A drop of blood falls into the river. Then a tear follows.

I am left standing in a stream. Alone, bleeding, and regretful.

My blood rolls down my arm and sinks into the now blood ridden liquid.


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Day 2.

Your voice feels how pouring rain sounds, when you’re home and unbothered by it, when you smile and cuddle your pillow in the dark. Your voice feels like taking deep breaths, you’re better than my prescriptions, I swear, you call, I pick up, and I’m healed, the rest is just shallow, it goes by fast or slowly, it doesn’t really matter because I’m missing you, hard, constantly, viciously. Your voice feels like turning the radio on, only better, because it only plays my favorite songs; I love it when you call, I miss you when you text, I text you when you don’t, I’m never bored of you, even when I am, I rather listen to you breathing than hearing the void of your absence, the sound of your silence, the pause of your voice.

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Trigger Warning: Depression/Suicide

This is NOT a suicide note, I’m just empathizing with people who are suicidal and expressing something I need to get off my chest. Here’s the following:

Don’t cry for me when I’m gone

Please don’t miss me

Remember you did nothing wrong

It was my choice

I tried to speak up and use my voice

I’m in a better place

So give yourself some grace

Don’t be mad at me

There was nothing you could do

Jesus still loves me, it’s true

When you lose the one you love

And it’s not their time

Know I didn’t want to leave

I felt like I had no choice

But no one listened to my voice

Can you hear my silent plea?

Actually it’s not that silent

As I’m crying out for you to hear

For someone to see

Notice me

It’s not just for attention

Please don’t write it off as that

Only God can save me

No one thinks I need more serious help

A hospital can’t fix me

I see everyone, a therapist I take the meds

They throw at me

Sometimes if there was a way out

I’d take it

But we both know that’s not really what I want

I don’t know what to do

The people around me say I don’t need more help

But others say I know myself best

My therapist he’s a great guy but he can’t save me

Only God and I can save myself

I want to believe He can save me from myself

He will

I’m determined not to let my shadow side win

No my life won’t be labeled as another lost to sin

What will it take

I don’t want to make this mistake

I’m dying on the inside

God save me

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a poem
moon rise lady
night dancer
ballerina of the dusk
moving swaying flitting
an amorous princess
destiny of star and sky
it is not enough to be one with twilight
she exists in beautiful motion
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Odd, even tragic
how these copper, round disks get abandoned;
a discovery gets saddened.
The carving of erosion leaves holes in their metal skins
before a change-pirate tucks them in.

Their endeavor to the dirt’s surface
exposes them to the sun’s spite.
The rust-orange shines, commanding one’s sight.
Nonetheless, these little scraps of currency
follow a conventional rule:
you don’t seek them out; they come to you.

Someone careless did this:
this person embedded one into a gob of gummy glue.
Oh, how could you?

Spirits must have sent them,
these embodiments of 1978, 1981 and 1982,
before this one knew how to chew.

“In 1978, I rose to prominence.
Unlike you, I did not sit on any fence.
My poems were intense.
I couldn’t wait to get my fist around an American cent.”

“In 1981, I dispersed offerings to the decorative fish,
in hopes that their humble abode
was a breeding ground for a selfish wish.
Life’s rusty travail is not my niche.
May you bring a billion of your copper cousins to this sink.”

“In 1982, I found my first gal, with jean jacket,
jumbo-sized earrings et al,
and we had our first adventure in a white stall,
dropping pennies from my overturned pockets.
Never have they been better spent.”

Oh, these copper deliveries, dirty and alight,
these disks have tales.
They set the mind’s inventions to write.


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Hey its your Gurl Je’Jae, just jay, a blue Jay free from boxes.

My bittersweet New Yorker accent forms my whole; my home is a place my mind & souls are aligned.

They call me a “Resilient Queen” one whose lively, fabulous & insightful!”

My spirit of an empath, sweet & sensitive with the needs of lots & lots of affection.

Stuff my belly with fries, fruits and atll that is art. I distaste the ignorant, tomatoes & surely toxic masculinity.

Find me one with Nature, running free in the fields of crafts, graced with the sounds of birds chirping. Chilled by the hands of my elders sculpting their history by their veins.

My skeleton departs & soul freezes to stone when met with rejection, stigmatization, failure; and society only salts me with apathy.

I am a artist, activist, with a claw of a cancer, nonbinary, of Mizrachi heritage, fashionista, spiritual traveler & thinker.


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Your Eyes by Khai Lhá


They asked me why I don’t like eyes that shine like emeralds; that look like the treetops; that look like moss and lime and spring.




They asked me why I don’t like eyes that look like the deep blue sea; that look like diamonds; that look like cold steel and stone; that look like the clear skies.




They asked me why I don’t like eyes that look like chocolate and honey; that look like the Earth just after it rains; that look like copper and wood; that look like cinnamon and syrup and walnuts; that look like gingerbread men that just came out of the oven; that look like caramel and mocha; that look like freshly brewed coffee and hot chewy cookies.




They asked me why I love “boring, plain eyes”.




They asked me why I love your eyes.




They asked me why I love eyes that look like space; that are as dark as coal and ebony; that look like the damage done when lava touches water the first time; that look like burnt paper and spilt ink; that look like pure oblivion and nothingness; that look like the sky that I see whenever I felt like giving up at midnight.




I love your eyes, not because everybody else thinks they’re boring, but if you’d actually look closer; you’d see cosmos underneath those pitch black orbs. If you’d look deeper, you’d see a galaxy that would take millions of light years to get to and eternity to figure out. If you’d stay longer; you’d witness it dance with mirth, shine with affection, grow dark with anger and glow with tears.




And when your eyes finally looked into mine; I saw your eyes, replaying the memory of your heart being bruised and broken. Your eyes, pleading, not for me to mend it, but accept the broken pieces.

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So there’s a girl

So there’s a girl, but she’ll never know just how much I need her.

So there’s a girl, but she doesn’t see herself the way I do.

So there’s a girl, but she’s broken and I’d do anything to fix it.

So there’s a girl, but her eyes are shielded from the sun.

So there’s a girl, but her mind is dark enough for the both of us.

So there’s a girl, but I want her to be mine.

So there’s a girl, but she’ll never know just how much I need her.

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His skeleton chomped on the snow cap,
as though he were biting
a virgin disk of peppermint.
He smiled a toothy grin.

I swooned for a millennium.
The deadly nightshade tapped out my eyes.
The thread seam collected my thighs.
I was a smitten Sally– counting on the confetti
that is the January snow.

His mask was a burden. His pop songs were lies.
He wore his skeleton on the outside.
Always the armor, hiding the meat.
Silver bats and sugar elves, never the twain should meet.
The doctor puts the rag doll on the shelf.
The skeleton slips away, independent, maintaining itself.


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if you’ve never seen
six 11th graders
sitting in a circle
tight lipped
untouched food
in a cafeteria
while the rest of the school
at the empty seventh seat
count your lucky stars

if you’ve never seen 
a sweet sixteen set
of misfit best friends
because it hurts too much
to see their own grief
mirrored in each other’s eyes
their own brand new
branded on each other’s skin
thank every god you know

we were untouchable
we thought

we were filled with
smoke and tenacity

the untouchable seven 
until we weren’t

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I’m getting back into old habits again.

The calculator in my head has started counting calories again.

Every sharp object looks like my best friend again.

I’m weighing myself every day again.

I’ve been chewing ice for meals again.

The color red looks prettiest spilling from my wrists again.

I’m getting back into old habits again and this time I’m not sure I can get rid of them.

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I fight against

The hands holding me down,

Spewing hate and burning

With rage,

Fighting against my own destruction,

Never realizing I am

Grasping at my own throat.


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