Youth
Art by Tobias Dorsemaine
Ribbons by Abigail Jennings (11)
I hedged my bets on girlhood, from the moment I could latch my fine, spindling ivy to the silver meshwork fences on the schoolyard. My dearest childhood friends, with whom I shared half-lockets and giggled secrets and tiny plastic hair ties that tugged like boys’ teasing against our scalps, were the girls who creeped up the walls with me, carving identity between the holes in the metal. It was among pinks, then purples, then teals, that I grew my adoration of girls, and women. Before I ever felt my heart jump over itself upon its first infatuated blush with burgeoning teenage pseudoromance–before I Loved, I loved girls. And I belonged to them, perfectly indistinguishable in a crowd of my peers.
Something happened the day I fell in Love with a girl. The world seemed to crash and bend around me, uneasy fists uneager to brush against my open palms. To me, Loving girls was only ever for the same reasons I loved them; their spirits overflowing with apple wine, long aged in untraceable gardens; their hands, with chipped nail polish or perfectly groomed cuticles; the little drops of spirit crystalized in their irises: amber and citrine and quartz, fossilizing the moments their souls came alive. The others didn’t see it that way. I had taken girlhood too far, and wrapped back around to masculinity in the process: Lesbians weren’t girls, not really.
I was changed by one askew heartbeat, thrust from the walls I had spent thirteen years climbing. My girlhood, womanhood, was not filled with glitter or pink ribbon or giggling anymore, it was made up of overalls and carpentry and deep, throaty laughter.
I had no qualms with this new identity–I wore it like skin. If this was the way of the women I saw my souls in, then I was happy to wear their badge, but I never wanted that at the cost of the girls I held dear. Their version of girlhood had changed, when I wasn’t looking; they sang songs in the car about boys and pointed sheepishly at shirtless pictures in magazines.
Just when I had gotten to the age when I could finally emulate the teenage girls whose posters lined my room and whose music filled my ears, I wasn’t a part of their club. I guess I had figured that things wouldn’t change. I thought that about a lot of things, then. Childhood was one long stasis chamber, a sleeper-spy cover I had gotten a little too comfortable with. When I got the message to activate, I couldn’t blame my hesitance.
I feel huge swaths of inaction washing over me at every turn, like a child at a funeral. There is no action I can take to solve this. There’s no use defibrillating an urn. I can only grieve it, feel every color I once saw lining the sky after an indoor recess, or sew pink ribbons on my flannels and hope for the best.
Something happened the day I fell in Love with a girl. The world seemed to crash and bend around me, uneasy fists uneager to brush against my open palms. To me, Loving girls was only ever for the same reasons I loved them; their spirits overflowing with apple wine, long aged in untraceable gardens; their hands, with chipped nail polish or perfectly groomed cuticles; the little drops of spirit crystalized in their irises: amber and citrine and quartz, fossilizing the moments their souls came alive. The others didn’t see it that way. I had taken girlhood too far, and wrapped back around to masculinity in the process: Lesbians weren’t girls, not really.
I was changed by one askew heartbeat, thrust from the walls I had spent thirteen years climbing. My girlhood, womanhood, was not filled with glitter or pink ribbon or giggling anymore, it was made up of overalls and carpentry and deep, throaty laughter.
I had no qualms with this new identity–I wore it like skin. If this was the way of the women I saw my souls in, then I was happy to wear their badge, but I never wanted that at the cost of the girls I held dear. Their version of girlhood had changed, when I wasn’t looking; they sang songs in the car about boys and pointed sheepishly at shirtless pictures in magazines.
Just when I had gotten to the age when I could finally emulate the teenage girls whose posters lined my room and whose music filled my ears, I wasn’t a part of their club. I guess I had figured that things wouldn’t change. I thought that about a lot of things, then. Childhood was one long stasis chamber, a sleeper-spy cover I had gotten a little too comfortable with. When I got the message to activate, I couldn’t blame my hesitance.
I feel huge swaths of inaction washing over me at every turn, like a child at a funeral. There is no action I can take to solve this. There’s no use defibrillating an urn. I can only grieve it, feel every color I once saw lining the sky after an indoor recess, or sew pink ribbons on my flannels and hope for the best.
Faded Flowers by Nazeefa Alomgir (11)
“Dont move, Mahua. You’ll smudge it”.
Her mother’s fingers gently wrap around her daughter’s wrist, holding her still as she meticulously pipes beautiful traditional designs on her small, fragile palms. The cold touch of mehndi paste kisses Mahua’s warm skin. The herbaceous aroma from the eucalyptus and clove melanges with the air and lingers on the skin. Burgundy vines curl around her arms, leaves twist into flowers that bloom on her palms. Her mother purses her lips and blows against the fresh paste, tickling her skin. When cracks start to appear and the paste begins to flake, Mahua runs to the sink and rinses away the brittle, dried umber to reveal the deep, rich orange stain underneath.
As the years pass by, Mahua’s love for henna continues to grow. Soon enough, she learns to wield the cone herself. At first, her lines wobble, flowers tangle into a scribbly mess and vines smudge. She makes mistakes often, scrubbing her skin until it burns, but her mom always helps her fix it. Henna doesn’t last forever. It will always fade, mistakes will disappear and soon become a blank canvas again. She found comfort in knowing that nothing lasts forever.
Wedding bells chime and jingle, Mahua’s excitement is caught between chaos and nerves, yet she always finds time for mehndi. Mahua sits across her mother, holding her mother’s frail hand steady.
“Don’t move,” she whispers with a teasing grin.
Her mother faintly smiles, her hands shudder. Her translucent skin etched with dark veins and wrinkles like cracks in porcelain. Mahua sprouts a garden of her mother’s favourite floral designs, in hopes she’ll recognise them. Her mother leans forward and squints, her bushy brows knit together.
“Mahua, these are very pretty. Where did you learn how to do this?”
Mahua pauses. They sit in silence for a bit before Mahua looks up and says softly.
“You taught me, Amu.”
She often forgets her mother is getting older, and her memories are beginning to wither. But how can she not remember the long nights of Mahua’s frustration, having to re-do every line until it was perfect, how her she helped her through every step. Mahua does not want to believe it. Each echo of the past will be forgotten and fade like the mehndi painted on her mother’s hands, allowing for new life to grow and blossom. But she did not want a new canvas this time.
She finishes the last swirl and blows gently on her mother’s hands. For the first time, she wishes henna could stain forever–but she knows all too well that nothing lasts forever.
Her mother’s fingers gently wrap around her daughter’s wrist, holding her still as she meticulously pipes beautiful traditional designs on her small, fragile palms. The cold touch of mehndi paste kisses Mahua’s warm skin. The herbaceous aroma from the eucalyptus and clove melanges with the air and lingers on the skin. Burgundy vines curl around her arms, leaves twist into flowers that bloom on her palms. Her mother purses her lips and blows against the fresh paste, tickling her skin. When cracks start to appear and the paste begins to flake, Mahua runs to the sink and rinses away the brittle, dried umber to reveal the deep, rich orange stain underneath.
As the years pass by, Mahua’s love for henna continues to grow. Soon enough, she learns to wield the cone herself. At first, her lines wobble, flowers tangle into a scribbly mess and vines smudge. She makes mistakes often, scrubbing her skin until it burns, but her mom always helps her fix it. Henna doesn’t last forever. It will always fade, mistakes will disappear and soon become a blank canvas again. She found comfort in knowing that nothing lasts forever.
Wedding bells chime and jingle, Mahua’s excitement is caught between chaos and nerves, yet she always finds time for mehndi. Mahua sits across her mother, holding her mother’s frail hand steady.
“Don’t move,” she whispers with a teasing grin.
Her mother faintly smiles, her hands shudder. Her translucent skin etched with dark veins and wrinkles like cracks in porcelain. Mahua sprouts a garden of her mother’s favourite floral designs, in hopes she’ll recognise them. Her mother leans forward and squints, her bushy brows knit together.
“Mahua, these are very pretty. Where did you learn how to do this?”
Mahua pauses. They sit in silence for a bit before Mahua looks up and says softly.
“You taught me, Amu.”
She often forgets her mother is getting older, and her memories are beginning to wither. But how can she not remember the long nights of Mahua’s frustration, having to re-do every line until it was perfect, how her she helped her through every step. Mahua does not want to believe it. Each echo of the past will be forgotten and fade like the mehndi painted on her mother’s hands, allowing for new life to grow and blossom. But she did not want a new canvas this time.
She finishes the last swirl and blows gently on her mother’s hands. For the first time, she wishes henna could stain forever–but she knows all too well that nothing lasts forever.
Life goes on by Rachel Kilgour (10)"Life goes on" they told me, Giving me a pat on the back and pitying looks. They think it grants me comfort. What if I don't want life to go on? What if I want life to stop at a standstill, To turn the clock and bring me back to tears shed of scraped knees and not scratched arms. I wish I didn't feel empty, I wish my only emotion wasn't longing. I'm always left to wonder, Is it possible to miss something you never had? Because if it is I miss my childhood. I miss what could have been if I didn't grow up too fast, if I hadn't decided it was cooler to be older instead of enjoying my youth. I miss saturated skies and rose tinted glasses, I miss low expectations and unconditional love. I wish time moved slower. I feel too young to be making life decisions and too old to play games. I feel like I'm losing touch with what I'm supposed to be good at, I feel like I'm running out of time, I feel like I'm running after time, I feel like it's running away. I won't feel like this forever, right? The world looks at me and says they understand, but they don't show me support. They look at me in disgust, They look at me with reproach and they judge. "When I was your age-" "well I never had to worry about-" "I never acted like-" They tell me I'm doing wrong but don't tell me how to do right. I feel like I've been given a puzzle with missing pieces that society expects me to complete. I claw at the walls, I shake the box, I beg for help, For extra pieces, To know I'm not crazy, And no one answers. If I lock these emotions away, Do they exist? Did they ever exist? Am I an experiment? A cat left in box with poisonous gas to prove that it can survive so long as you don't open it, Because as long as you ignore it and pretend it isn't there, It isn't real and you don't need to help. The problem remains a what if and they move on to the next cat stuck in poisonous gas, To the next person with missing pieces to the puzzle of life, they look at them with pitying looks and pat's to their back to grant them their comfort, and they say "Don't worry. I understand your pain, And I wanted to tell you that it will go away. It gets hard, but theres one blessing you can count on, The world will keep spinning, Because Life goes on." Mature for my Age by Cyerra Clostre (10)I’ve always been too mature for my age. Having thoughts rush down my brain, going 90 in a 35 in my under developed brain. Everyone used to say, That I’ve developed well for my age. That my mind never stayed little, it matured with all that has made me grown. That my heart always grew fonder, That I wore it upon my sleeves. That my heart never spoke out, And never bothered to make sure my door was locked; Or more so that anyone had a key. I’ve always been mature for my age. Acknowledged that it was such a surprise when adults realized they could have an adult conversation with me; When they realized I always thought before I spoke. I’ve always been more mature. Always would rather being alone, Never had very many friends, Always had a thought that could never leave me because well, Maybe my brain just hated being alone. I’ve always been more mature. Always thinking about what my future has in store for me. If I have a kid or maybe three. If one of them or all take after me. Who would my husband be? Kind hearted and unique like a piece of beautiful abstract art. Made perfectly imperfect by hands that were made to create and paint. I’ve always been more mature. lived a thousand lives in one. Reading books upon books, Understanding my heart at the age three. What I wanted, how I felt, How soon I’d learn just how much of a curse feeling too deeply would be. I’ve always been mature for my age, Though I lost two loved ones before the age of ten. Learned how to deal with grief before learning how to calculate numbers in my head. Learned the types of poetry so that the memories we once created didn’t become the movies I’d obsess about before bed. I’ve always been mature for my age, At least that’s what many have said. Many have said I understood things many my age wouldn’t. But I honestly think that’s because from a young age I knew what it had felt like to have beg. To have to beg that my family wouldn’t take their last breaths, To get my angles back. I only started writing because of the tears it felt I had lacked. To have thoughts keeping you up at night. To having anxiety sleep under my bed. To have it slowly slip through my cracks, To anxiety slowly somewhat shaping my emotions. To have society whispering into my ears and tell me that I’m too fat for a kid my age. So I’ve always been mature for my age, Proudly wore my heart around my wrist. Had a spare key for everyone important to me. Just in case they gave me a good reason to let them in. And learned how to turn the loud thoughts into poetry. Silent pleas unheard, poetry unseen and acting that deserved a bunch of mommies, or a standing ovation. I’m not more mature because I’m an old soul, I’m more mature for my age because anxiety, grief, society, and the negative view of my own body hit me at the age six. Old enough to have my heart slowly bleed, and my seems slowly break. Old enough to have life teach me it’s very cruel ways. Pure and Beautiful by Cyerra Clostre (10)I miss childhood, It was pure, It was beautiful and most importantly it was so unapologetically me. Life is still great, It has less colour, Sure. But I still love the same. My face has smile lines, And my eyes still sparkle. I’m just older, No longer only six but sixteen. No longer playing with barbies but writing short stories and more. I miss childhood, But that’s only because kids nowadays aren’t kids. They are trying to be teenagers as teenagers want to once again be free. I miss childhood, The colour pink, Unicorns, Happy songs, Dances for sleepovers, The swings that made me think I too was a bird. Yet most importantly, I wish i hugged everyone a little longer, I wish I acted younger and not older than I really was. I miss my childhood, It was fun and pure. My childhood will always be a part of my story that will forever be tabbed. |
The Deep, Dark Woods by Theia Taylor (10)Behind the wooden swings held up by ropes, Tied around a wooden plank, nailed to two trees Two trees with tops completely cut off, two trees that were long dead Lays the deep, dark woods Sitting on the swing this Easter Legs aching from over-exertion At fifteen years old They are neither deep nor dark The sunlight behind me lights up a straight path to the spot they end But at seven years old, Me and my brother would get on the four-wheeler with our grandfather And we would ride into the forest, between the low hanging trees and over the sharp pebbles Ride past the pet cemetery where our childhood cats rested, where my mother’s did as well Their wooden crosses lined up in the grass How our cats' were so pristine, never weathered How they were caked in dirt, how moss only grew over Moss’s wood-covered name The road around was bumpy, but the trees were tall as the sky And the shadows danced around me, even in direct sunlight And I would laugh the full loop around And when we would emerge, way away from the swings, at the vegetable garden I felt like an adventurer just over with a mission, born anew The last time I was on the four-wheeler, it was not in the deep, dark woods Instead, it was sawing down dead trees in the backyard Piling wood into a trailer, bracing against the November chill, Burning pine needles to smoke Driving it alone for the first time I haven’t been in the deep, dark woods for a while We haven’t lit up the firepit for a while We haven’t tobogganed down the hill for a while Soon enough, I won’t be back ever again When we go back for the last time To help with the auction, the auction to sell most of what my childhood knows I’ll take another turn on the wooden swings, another sit by the firepit And before we sell the four-wheeler, I’ll take another trip through the deep, dark woods. Angels and Ash Trays by Ella Morin (10)Do you ever feel like your guardian angel went out for a smoke? You don’t believe, And you haven’t in a while… But the construct is always in the back of your mind. You think of hell so much it drives you mad, God can atone for your sins, but what about your guilt? You’re spiteful, with your twisted bitter personality and your vicious words. You’re a stray dog who bites. Not out of rage, Not out of confusion, Not out of revenge, But out of fear, out of condition. Arrogance aside, nothing truly terrifies you as much as God. “God knows all of your ugliness” your mother preaches, “And loves you despite” It’s supposed to make you feel loved, But you are still ugly, and he’s still God. You beg for forgiveness, mercy, love. You repent. Forgive me father, for I have sinned. And as I kneel here now; hands red with blood, I know deep down that I’ll do it again. Repent… Praying, again. You’re kneeling before god, for him to listen, But does he only listen when you get this close to the devil, When you’re practically melting into him. When your knees are raw, and your rosary tarnishes, Will you finally realize, Will repentance do any good for you in this lifetime? You repent nonetheless. But at the end of the day, you will never be clean from sin Rotten children don’t deserve heaven. And there is no god who can give you your purity back. It’s a humiliation ritual, To beg for forgiveness that you shouldn’t need. And if you’re really right, and if God’s not real, then why carry so much guilt. If everyone goes to hell and someone’s religion, If God is as cruel as he sounds, Then he is probably human. And if he is really out there, If he really has power, How could he let you feel like this? If there is a god, he will have to beg for your forgiveness at the pearly gates of heaven. He will have to attest to your suffering. He will have to apologize. You asked God one last time, Before your guardian angel went for a smoke, Will it ever get better? And God was Silent. Your angel must’ve burned alive, Fallen from heaven. For now, all you can hope for is that there is nothing after death, that you are just rotting in the cold dark earth, and that from your body grows flowers, and that will be your eternity. Not a heaven you tortured yourself to get into, Not a hell you fought hard to stay out of, But a pretty bunch of wildflowers. Pretty by Ellen Scott (10)A mother and her daughter walked down the street A stranger leaned in and stopped them “Isn’t she pretty!” the woman shared with a smile And the mother smiled back because she agreed She never stopped to wonder what the woman could have meant by pretty Pretty special, pretty kind, pretty innocent? But the intentions didn’t seem to matter Because they looked pure You see, Pretty is a pale word A ribbon tied around a hurricane An attempt to dull down the sharp edges of a person So they fit neatly on a shelf Dustless and silent It’s a participation trophy of language A low hanging fruit of compliments Like comparing the sun To a burning candle Safe enough to be held Small enough to be snuffed out with a passing breath A mother carried food to the table with the help of her daughter She set the table One plate for every chair Careful and exact The little girl brought dry turkey to her mouth And missed the way her sister’s shoulders tensed as their uncle called her pretty No, she smiled because she agreed And no one ever taught her what pretty could really be Pretty clever, pretty brave, pretty mature for her age She didn’t understand And she didn’t know it mattered that his compliment wasn’t pure A girl moved to middle school A boy walked past and tossed a note onto her desk Folded three times over and written in green pen, “I think you’re pretty” And the girl blushed And her friends squealed like a chorus because they agreed They didn’t look for the missing words Pretty cheerful, pretty bold, pretty smart Those came in separate notes Ones that no one bothered to fold Now, the girl moved up to high school And boys didn’t just call girls pretty anymore Boys left impressions of “perfect” on her lips and bare skin Hot, gorgeous, beautiful, Never Kind, special, sweet Never lovely, clever, brave And their compliments drove her mad She kissed boys just to hear words that felt no different than pretty always had And she cried because no matter who said it she couldn’t agree She cried and felt the worst kinds of pretty Pretty boring, pretty bad, pretty clingy, nasty, cruel A wife walked down the street, pushing her daughter in a stroller Hand in hand with her husband who called her far better things than just pretty And a woman stopped them before saying, “Well isn’t she pretty,” And the mother smiled and brushed her hand across her babies cheek, Before saying, “She’s just lovely, isn’t she?” |
Lay there and Bleed by Ella Morin (10)This Poem is heavily based off of the finishing of the book "All My Puny Sorrows" by Canadian Author Miriam Toews, and the passing of the character Elfrieda Von Riesen. I’m bleeding out, The floor is cold, I hear the sink running behind me, My body starting to go numb, Tearstained cheeks, Hollow eyed, Shaky hands, I’ve done it again, I’m a witness to my own destruction, A bystander to this mess I’ve created, Feeling my body fade as my mind goes with it, I’ll dig my fingernails into my flesh, Trying to feel something Watch myself bleed, Let it sting, Trying to dismantle and repair the creation I call myself, But Will I ever be fixed? Or Am I too far gone? I want to heal, Of course I do, But then what will I be? What will be left of me if I cut away the parts I don’t want anymore, And will they be gone forever should I decide I want them back? Or will I have to carry them with me forever? Every scar, every memory, every impression, I wish to forget, My memory is a cruel thing, Too blurry for me to see the full picture, Yet not blurry enough for me to forget altogether. I know I’ve been hurt, I just don’t understand how badly. Violated, Debased, Stained, Let down by the people who were meant to protect me, And now, We simply must all move forward, Because every saint has a past, And every sinner has a future, I’ll let the bridges I burn light the way. But then what happens? |
What’s my plan? I don’t know anymore, I have trusted the version of me who thought she had time, Who thought things would make sense, Who thought life would look different by now. And I’m still left to contemplate, To tell myself You’re not gonna figure it out this time, To know, from the bottom of my heart, I will not be okay this time, To regret having let a little girl who didn’t believe she would grow to see 18 decide my future, The one who thought of dying prepared, I resent her, But in some subtle ways, she is still in me, So, as I lay on the floor, As the white tile stains red, I begin to think about my future again, But not one on earth, I begin to think of God, Of how I will reach the top of the stairs to heaven, and he will look me in the eyes and tell me that there’s still someone left to forgive. And I think of how I will beg, and plead, my knees raw, My heart will feel like it’s being torn out, But when God looks at me, I will look back, And he will feel shame, He will look at his child, And he will be proof that a father can truly hate his daughter. Facing him, I’ll have to accept death, As I walk backwards into hell. Or maybe I’m wrong altogether, And he will look at me with empathy, And I will be angry once more, I’ll scream at him not to look at me with pity in his eyes, And he’ll shake his head, And tell me, “You suffer as long as you choose to” Nonetheless, I don’t think I’ll ever find peace, Unless life truly ends at death, no heaven, No hell, No reincarnation, No survival of my soul, But a true and complete end, The sedation of consciousness, And a state of liberation. |