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By: Tara Saraf
Through tears forming at the corners of my eyes, I watched as the cell door slammed behind him. I took a moment to gather my thoughts, glancing at my wrist to check the time. 8:57 PM glared back at me in a bright blue hue. Only three minutes before my shift ended, which I’d have to make up, as soon as they let me out of this place. Donny would only be here for a few days but with that meant a ridiculous amount of paper-work. It’s as if they wanted guardians to be in the psych-ward as long as the patients were. Fair enough. It’s what we deserve for sending’ em’ here in the first place. As if we aren’t enough to help them. A woman’s sudden, sharp voice cuts me into reality. “You’re here for Donald Macaluso?” she said with a yawn. I immediately turned around and faced the woman, who now appeared to be the doctor. Donny Time froze as I stared at the knife. I ran my fingers along the cool metal of the blade, and in that moment, it was only us. The world had lost its meaning and I was more than sure of my decision. How was I to live, if nothing for? All I needed to do was cut, cut, cut, and regardless of the pain, that would be it. One last stab to end them all. And then there would be nothingness. My hands trembled as I sunk the tip deep into my palm. I think I heard myself scream; it was absolutely electrifying. I kept going, puncturing more of the skin and yelling out in satisfaction. There was no time to think twice, for I had finally come upon my freedom; nothing life had come close to offering me. *** I stared down at the depression screening in my hand, recalling the doctor’s whispers amongst her colleagues about a potential diagnosis. I now realized what the exam was for; I wanted out. This was ridiculous, let alone unwarranted. They couldn’t just sit me down for interrogation. If Monica were here, she wouldn’t let this happen. Or would she? It was hard to tell, since she’s what got me here in the first place. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to rip her tongue out of her head, or just hold her. Either way, I needed to see her. Ten minutes visitation after an hour drive all the way from Toledo was frustrating. After what had gone down the last time, or.. what hadn’t… considering i hadn’t said a word, she had left with her head held in her hands. First thing next time: I noted to myself: Give the girl a hug. Then get a hold of her purse, find the money and buy yourself some apology cigarettes: her treat. The high-pitched screech of the arm chair Dr. Daly leaned back in, forced me out of my thoughts. The sudden movement made me jolt in a startle, which made the old woman chuckle. Her piercing green gaze and pin straight ginger hair made my skin crawl. That patronizing smile was mocking me. “How’s it going, dear?” she said a little too sweetly. I squirmed in my chair as she never broke eye contact; it made my occasional side glances look skeptical. My hands itched for a needle. Dr. Daly’s smile would look much more genuine with both lips sewed together tight. That way, she wouldn’t speak either. Next, I did the talking. “When’s visitation?” I asked impatiently, dodging the question. The doctor sighed as she nodded, expecting the ignorance. She didn't let me leave her with nothing however, and pestered me further. “You’ll speak with your sister soon, however, for us to help you, we must begin somewhere. The questionnaire is a great start, Donald.” “Donny”, I correct her by interrupting. She pauses and restates my nickname, then continues. “Anything you write on that paper will be helpful,” she said at the end, gesturing toward the ballpoint on the countertop. I scoffed which probably wasn’t fair, but set the clipboard down on the table anyhow. Daly fixed her gaze elsewhere, and I started to scribble all over the page and on the back. Pushing the clipboard to the other end of the table, I didn’t wait for a reaction. I turned around and ran, the door slamming shut behind me.
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By: Ishita Khambete
Whenever she walked into a room, eyes were on her. Whenever people would want to talk to her, she’d ask them to call. Whenever she needed something, someone would get it for her. She would smile a sweet smile, one that was like honey, sweet, and trapped you in her gaze. She lied. She lied like her life depended on it. Her lies were smooth as a snake, and wove a web as intricate as that of a spider’s. She would sit on her patio, and wave to the little kids, yell to the adults, and then silently pray to be able to see the end of her day. It was on Saturdays that she picked up her cigarettes. She believed that smoking was a sin, yet she told her friends that “One needs to let themselves loose once in a while”. It was when she was 28 that she found a lover. She weaved him into her lies, her sweet, dripping trap. Her spider’s web was growing, and it turned from sweet, silken patterns to a consistency of crystallized honey. Her lover tried to break her web, but she was too strong, too good for him or anyone else to fight her. She started to keep her honey with her wine, and her cigarettes littered her home, and her life. She prayed. She prayed as if her life depended on it, the same way she lied. Her prayers were never answered, not by the Gods, nor her web made of crystallized honey. It was shortly after her 30th birthday that she disappeared by mysterious circumstances, and only her lover knew about it. People tried to get it out of him, but he threw it to the crystallized honey web, and let himself succumb to the lies, and the sugar sweet honey that caught everyone by their necks. Written by: Tracey Liu
She had scars - but she didn’t fight a war. But she was only a child who still bore scars. People praised her for her scars, thinking she had some heroic adventure. She didn’t feel proud of them. Instead, she felt ashamed flustered upset dirty. Yet she was only a child, who should have still had her innocence. They mocked her because of her culture - where she was once proud of it, she felt dirty. Yet she was only a child, who should have been proud. And every now and then, she went down to the cherry blossom trees, where they welcomed her with open arms. She wanted to lie there forever. But she was only a child, who should have been loved. Then one day, she decided she had had enough. And so down she went to the cherry blossom trees, where the flowers were sparkling pink. And down, down, down, she went until the flowers dripped red. Yet she was only a child who took her own life. By: Nandiinii Gupta
The world is resting upon the roots planted ages ago, with seeds of hope and sound; the epicenters of what drives humanity forward, to live and give root to love, because living in harmony is what we were born for. Hope, stands, as the most powerful weapon in the hands of a desperate being. You may take a house away and destroy every shred of love in one's life but you can't ever destroy hope, because hope, is what you can have when you have everything, and when you have nothing. Sound, and voice, the bellowing cries for change and changemakers, the sobbing of grieving families, the laughter of a successful effort- you can take away everything from a person, but their voice, their ideas, them. A person is a who they are because of the way they use their voice. I ask you this: What will happen when you bring hope and you bring sound, and you put them together in those who have the will, the fire, the rage to change the nation- the very people being proclaimed as the "future of our country"? Would you ever want to stand on the side that opposes them? A rebellion is sparking, it's catching fire. This fire that warmed you, will be the one to burn you down, if you're not sure of where you stand. Pick a side and fight for it, if you wish. But I'll tell you something: The side that sets the fires won't be burning to ashes. Written by: Nandiinii Gupta
It’s the third day of loving myself. The world is teetering on the edge of a pandemic, And I stand just two steps back, Praying to a god I don’t believe in, For the extra time in my life; Like a pause button, that brings Everything but the rotation of the earth To a standstill; I am thankful for this time. It’s a blessing in disguise, a lot of us have managed to recognise, Learn new skills, focus on control of our lives, It’s a second chance for those of us who are still graciously alive. New skills are not easily learnt, Neither are they perfected in a single try, And I’ve discovered that learning to love yourself, Is the kind of art that takes you to a new high. It’s the third day of loving myself, Three days before, I was still learning, And I woke up at 3 a.m. on the first Tuesday of my new life, Lips dry, throat parched, eyes burning, Decided to look in the mirror, stomach churning, Fell in love with the mess that I was, Felt an unfamiliar yearning. It was then that I decided, That I better practice what I’ve been preaching to myself, All my chants of “I love you” to me, Had finally taken effect. The cosmos took it’s finger off The pause button on my life, Henceforth lay a journey, full of errors and trials, Seductive challenges, and love in the backdrop of strife. Self-love is a terribly hard lesson But it’s the only one that matters too, And yet this is the only chapter That society forgets to teach you. For it’s easy for the world to shame anything, It doesn’t believe to ring true; And yet it shames those too, Who burn in the light of truth. Irony and society thrive in the abundance of narcissism, Glory and selfishness, dance hand in hand, And self-love becomes a buried idea. And yet, Life coloured with love for self Is the greatest act of rebellion you can do. Narcissists fill the world in excess No limit to attraction and attention for themselves, The limitless urge to degrade others Just to taste that superiority of self. Self-love in a world of narcissists Rings too harsh to be taken as right, For learning to love without hurting others, Has always been an uphill fight. Growth must never be coupled with destruction Because paradoxes look beautiful only in poetry, And the real world is far more hellish than what you think. Learn that, to love means to give, Than take, Give more than you expect, In fact, don’t expect it back at all, Because kindness doesn’t need a cost and love doesn’t have a price. Self-love in a narcissistic world Is a task if you want it to be But think of it as an earth-shaking revolution, That with every ounce of love you dedicate to yourself, You’re spreading cracks in a mould that needs to break So, stand tall, stand straight And love and love and love yourself That’s how you can feel the roots of narcissism shake, And crush under your power; Be fearless, there is nothing at stake. Make this promise, promise to keep Revolution and love will bring the world to your feet. Written by: Ishita Khambete The cool spring air brushed against my skin,
providing the coolness I was looking for. I took each step without a purpose, for there wasn’t a purpose, not now, not ever. I have my AirPods in, listening to BTS, Troye Sivan, and Queen. My hair floats behind my face, my eyes continuously blinking, My face stone-cold. I realize a lot of things when I walk like this, I learn something about myself, stuff I don’t need to know, not now at least. I desire a purpose, meaning, usefulness. I don’t want to feel, to hurt, but that’s an impossible dream, an unattainable hope. Even in my deepest, darkest depths, I wish, desire, hope. Yet twas then that I realized that nothing matters, yet it all does. I never know if I’m in the right headspace for anything. Love, life, even laughter. I stay emotionally neutral, Waiting for the next time something sets me off or pushes me into a space of temporary darkness, or utter happiness. Till then, I walk, walk in the neighborhood, with the cool spring air brushing against my skin, and pushing my hair back. Poem composed by: Ishita Khambete Love is hard to find, hard to get.
It’s a strange thing really, when you think about it. You find someone and you think to yourself “I like this person, let me have them”. Then the other person decides the same thing, and you end up being together. Some people find it easy to love. Others don’t. Some people love. Others don’t. But when you find yourself wanting to love, but unable to find someone to love is one of the worst positions to be in. It’s the feeling that you want to love someone, but can’t because there’s something in you that stops you. Then comes in the fear, the fear that you’ll never love someone else. Even if that’s the case, don’t worry. You don’t always have to love someone else, You can just love yourself. Or a fictional character or someone unavailable. Because that’s something that happens. |
Photo used under Creative Commons from S@ndrine Néel
