I opened the door, pulling delicately on the rusty handle that was barely hanging on like the last leaf before winter, and sat in the passenger seat. It smelled like long car trips to Virginia every other week. I looked around for what I came into the car for. It was under the arm rest. I picked up the basket of cassettes and put it on my cold lap. Each cassette looked the same, but each one held a different memory inside. “The black rectangles” my sister would call them. 

The phone had been ringing incessantly all morning, but Jenna couldn’t bring herself to care. Ms. Martin had been hysterical all week about the color of her new sofa. Apparently when the old woman had agreed to an off-white color scheme for her living room, she didn’t realize that the pieces would be, well, ​not​ ​white​. This was the part of being a work-from-home interior designer that Jenna hated.

The anatomy of a mushroom goes as follows: scales, cap, gills, ring, stalk, base and mycelial threads. We start at the scales – rough patches on the surface of the cap that give mushrooms their characteristic warty pattern. I.e.: decoration.

Names are like decoration. We wear them so others can identify us, but they really are a bad system if you think about it.

A line of light rested on my bureau drawers this morning

like a birthmark taking the shape of curtains that rippled

like water patterns.

The blanket at the end of my bed, thick like honey

in the back of my throat, a spoonful of velvet,

night after night it sits there forgotten.

I never thought I could do it, and I finally did.

I was in fifth grade. The classroom is connected to the outside; it is wet and a little old and usually smells like rusty coins inside on rainy days. My classmates are usually chasing, laughing and interacting with each other, and the sound of the laughter almost covers the sound of the ringing bells.

Just like those before him,

Who conquered and ruled

By the blade of a sword,

He set out to control.

Bloodshed was his friend

As he wreaked destruction,

And with his efforts came anew.

365 days have passed but 

somehow the days are repeated.

The seasons have changed,

the flowers have grown 

and we found ourselves.

The gloomy day greets me with a smirk, and I sink back into bed,

With anxiety twisting my thoughts, and a fierce pounding in my head.

How many more deaths have there been since I fell asleep last night?

I try to tell myself that the world will somehow be alright.

We wake to a window,

Sunlight streaming through the glass panes.

Its illumination nearly burning our eyes,

Blurring over our visions.

But we can see through it.

He tried to budge; his wrists locked into place against the metal table by handcuffs. They were his prison. Cold to the touch, and blank with a story -- emptiness. He felt stuck. Not a stranger to this situation, yet now it bothered him. 

Mother always leaves her gloves in her snow boots near the entrance door of our drugstore. She says that way she doesn’t ever lose them. I tell her they’ll smell like her feet, but she doesn’t listen. She just chuckles under her instant coffee breath and says,

“At least I’m not the one with three left gloves.”

to be seen and not heard

till you’re heard but not seen

not even a teen

but no one believed

it’s

Don't spoil our fun

Don’t ruin its future

Don’t show me your pain

Don’t rat my abuser

As the Earth burns through the ground, there exists the indication

that no longer we exist, yet we just drink our sorrows

away as we lose our reputation to manufacturers and criticism.

Go on adventures in the words,

in our minds,

in the words in our minds

in the words for our minds

in the words of our minds

When I wake up today

I expect to wake up with gloom

But the slush outside wastes away

The flowers start to bloom

Last night I dreamt that you and I got married.

I stood at the altar and felt nothing.

You kissed my cheek as we left the church and I wiped it away,

Caressing it as if it were a bruise.

Always left with a

Blank page, these words can't 

Coalesce, fall just like these 

Droplets of water swirling down the drain.

It was a perfect night for a photoshoot.

The air in Addis Ababa smelled like thunderstorms, meskel flowers, and diesel fumes. Our footsteps sounded muffled as we stumbled onto the roof, buoyed by our own laughter. We arranged ourselves in the dark, basking in the glow of each other’s company.

Absence

years without seeing your face

yet you still seem to occupy space

in my mind, in my thoughts, in my dreams

a two dimensional woman in photos that surround the walls of my home

yet where is this woman?

she hasn’t seen how I’ve grown

Hands tell stories not by the creases on their palms, or the maze of

their swirls on their fingertips but through calloused bits of skin where

the edges peel at the sides.