ACEDIA

By Heeya

You must think I'm a fool— the child who craves depravity like a soul's soliloquy, like I sanctimoniously ceremonise penchants of chastity like some pendant upon grief; like an anathema of thorns gently piercing me whole, so quietly I don't realise the gushing red arching itself across a viridiscence so grave.

A dent that peaked itself into the corners, cut, creased, flowing belligerently like a presence upon lithe debris; like the paraphernalia of broken tombs I guard with ease, letting their sharp ends poison my senses into some evanescent sacrilege.

A burning so deep, yet so slowly as it seeps, destroying the intricate carvings of the palimpsest within; and there's no evidence of what once was other than the rust that keeps forming over the black biliary treatise.

Like a moth to a flame that keeps darting itself into destroying its existence against its better judgement, listless in its despair, and I pledge a dozen lullabies that carry my grief— the oceans of ice that melted into debris.

An ecclesiastic palinode, perhaps— a lacuna where my sanctity should have remained; or perhaps Acedia, slowly corroding the remnants of all I thought I was.

As I restructure every piece, begging the last memory of my intact sanctity, never knowing the truth of it— for my memories have been huddled and collided in deep, and perhaps there's no memory of how I used to be.

UNTITLED

By Charity Louise

I feel a little left out. Looking back I guess I was. It makes me want to shout. Maybe it shouldn't but it does. Why can't I seem to get it right? Am I missing something? Maybe I'm holding on to tight. Or maybe it's really nothing. Why do they have to stare? What did they say? I wish I didn't care. I'm in complete dismay. Are they laughing at me? Maybe they're just having fun. I wish they could see. I'm coming completely undone. I just want to fit in. I feel so all alone. Do they see my scared grin? Maybe I'm really a clone. Someone please help me. I can't do it on my own. I could sure use a whiskey.

Or maybe a headstone.



SCHIZOAFFECTIVE

By Jackie Chou

Sometimes,

I wish to shut out the world,

the smiles and the waving hands,

to stare through a thick window,

the scene outside muted

like a silent movie,

the trees swaying 

without rustling,

the cars passing

without whooshing,

the people, voiceless,

and even then,

the noises in my head

would not quiet,

shattering into shards,

as I cover my ears

with frantic palms.

TONIGHT

By Gabriela Sanderson

There is a perfect moon rising in the east

and the shadow of the Earth will not touch it.

Once again, a city bus goes into the night,

into the suburbs where behind the windows,

in rooms lit like showcases

people play happy families.

The passengers look haggard, though,

quiet ghosts under the bleaching lights, 

worn by the weight of the day,

work, chores, late supermarket shopping.

Prisoners of long commutes, dozing when they can,

they daydream of pumpkins turned into Mercedes

and Princes Charming waiting

with the dinner ready and the washing done.

Tonight, there are no happy families where they go.

When we get off, tonight, we’ll find

that our house is silent, and it’s dark,

there’s only one dish on the table,

and one glass, and no other voices than our own.

But there’s a moon at least, tonight,

and the shadow of the Earth will not touch it.

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