Waraba has been Waraba since before Amadi was born. He claims he earned the nickname because he has the hyena’s luck in finding things. Amadi thinks it must be his laugh instead. It is loud and tense and filled with wanting. Waraba fights for attention like a hyena wrestling the marrow from a bone.
The sun is climbing from its bed. Treasure trucks lumber in from the city to dump their loads. Waraba is wetting the side of a rusted Bajaj. Little wheels point skyward, a three-legged carcass in a savannah of refuse. Waraba finishes and scans his domain. “Have you found anything good yet?”
Amadi rips open another black bag. He
tell my fourteen year old self i said goodbye by celestialparanoia, literature
Literature
tell my fourteen year old self i said goodbye
dear elise,
you will come to realise that even the most beautiful flowers will wilt.
in three months rosa’s cheeks won’t be so rosy anymore and you’ll be standing over an urn watering the ashes in the hopes that your sister will grow back without the thorns.
she’ll leave them behind, buried in parts of your heart that you never even thought existed and it’ll sting so much you’ll be
screaming at family or rather
the people you’re supposed to call family
to not bring flowers to a flower’s funeral.
your sister
thought she could hide it behind her petals
but she couldn’t and that means
you
five things they don't teach you in highschool by Khaimin, literature
Literature
five things they don't teach you in highschool
1.
it's okay to fall in love.
i mean, they tell you you're never going
to marry your high school sweetheart and i'm not going
to tell you it's a lie
because it's not. you guys will probably
break up and it's gonna hurt like hell
but you'll be okay. remember, you are not the only one
who has felt loneliness like a knife,
the only one to know the pain of lungs collapsing
because they were your air,
and you will never be the only one who whispered
"i love you" two lives too soon.
you will not be the last one to have tucked
hair behind their ear and leaned in for a kiss
or the last one to wake up reaching for a hand that's no longer there.
b
the last poem i write about my depression by MisfitableGrae, literature
Literature
the last poem i write about my depression
i want you to know that it took me years
to figure out the worst part. cause, sure, there’s
so many bad parts, there’s so many moments
when dragging air through your mouth feels
like letting in all the water. your body becomes
your own battlefield, your mind—the most
ruthless enemy. it does not cut corners.
it will not spare you. it will leave
no summer-tinted memory untouched.
every exit sign looks like a suggestion.
if you ask someone if they are happy they will say yes
but they will not look you in the eyes.
you will never learn how to feel permanent.
you will drink grape juice and try to remember how it felt
to be holy.
It's not uncommon
that I find myself tongue-tied
when crossing unspoken boundaries
daring to push me and my struggles
closer to those
with no intent
to make old scars bleed.
I weep for the impossible,
that I could be you for a moment,
replicating what these eyes perceive-
for beauty is something untraceable
to me.
If I could string words
from a humbled mess of self-pity-
it would be desire
to reveal the mask
I've been trembling behind
screaming
that I'm lost,
I'm not strong,
and I'm waiting-
for fate to break me alive.
I starve for the freedom,
of this shade,
that I can't find a way
to express this is all fake-
the
Because I feel like it!
1.
I was in AWANA as a kid, because all church kids were in AWANA. ("Approved Workmen Are Not Ashamed, boys and girls for His service claimed! Hail AWANA, on the march for youth!" ...the song makes God sound like a slaver. Or Hitler's Youth.) ANYWAY.
They did theme nights, like Ugly Tie Night (I wore what turned out to be my Dad's most expensive tie,) or Dress Up Your Leader Night (when my extensive collection of costume pieces was barred because of mold in our house, so I looked like a poor kid who only brought a pair of purple sweat pants.) And occasionally Ice Cream Sunday night, which was awesome.
This night's
Tonight,
great is not existent.
good is a little too far-fetched.
okay is not even within reach.
but melancholy with a touch of hope seems to be just right.