Pretty in pink
Pink like bubble gum and flowers you gave her. Pink like kisses and the faces you made when she looked at you with lashes low, Pink like your dress, and pink like your pencil, and pink like your notebooks and earrings and erasers. Pretty and pink Pretty in pink Pretty and pink Pretty in pink And never have you been angrier Pink like the colour of your face when you screamed your lungs out in the bathroom stall And pink like the colour of your bile when you drank a bottle of Pepto Bismol. Pink like the stain on your shirt where you washed out the proof of your bloody nose from tripping over your pink shoes. Pink like the colour of your room- When you painted it and soon after your sheets became pink like your shirt. Pink like the colour of your flesh on the inside, Or at least you found out after you crashed your pink electric scooter. Pink like your anger Pink like your frustration Pink like the Romans Pink like the sky before the world is ending, if even just for today. Pink like the colour of your sunglasses and your baseball bat. Pink like pretty. Pink like you Grey In reality, I didn’t want to be here. The lights buzz overhead and there aren’t any windows through which I could cure my claustrophobia. The table was gray and so were the walls and doors and tiles and bookshelves and books and students and teachers and so was I. I assume the sky was gray too but there were no windows to check. I sighed. Perhaps I can drown out my graying thoughts with some hopefully colorful music, but the music was just blue, and while it gave me a sort of sticky nostalgia it didn’t make me any less gray. I didn’t want to learn about choices and consequences. I didn’t want to overhear who wanted to spend the night with who, in all honesty, I’d rather die than sit here for another half hour. Unfortunately, I don’t have the option. For now, I’ll listen to my much more intelligent peers converse about devils, all those in the land and those created by lightning and happiness, those of which founded by a screaming house or from a strange part of space projected over radio waves, or about priests and sons of priests finding their gods (or should I say “Gods”) were men- all over a cushion of Notes Pour Trop Tard. But this will do, at least for the next few years. Hopefully no more than four. Maybe some less. The teacher looks at me expectantly. I’m not usually like this but the world isn’t usually like this. I want to say something interesting about gods and devils, but my tongue is gray like cement. It’s not worth it to stutter over some simple phrase about the greens and blues of the land one man needs and soft rains with no real value. I’m not about to embarrass myself for this teacher so I stare right back at her, but I immediately correct myself and give her a desperate look. She moves on. I wish everything else was this easy. Some other student takes my thoughts and better articulates them into a phrase that I might’ve had it been a nicer day. But most likely I wouldn’t have done much better than today. I keep trying to convince myself to try, give any effort whatsoever, but every day starts better and sinks back into gray. This facade of normalcy has been grating my psyche until I reach today. As if swimming through sap; I am a mere fruit fly who accidentally landed in a tub of cornstarch and water. My effort feels useless so I play a little pretend and invent a new me to play as. My character’s strong, I’m not too good at method acting. I let my m
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e all know how the popular saying goes: “an apple a day keeps the doctor away”. As a child, I would hear this all the time from my parents, from school, from the doctor, and pretty much anywhere I went. Whether it be through health magazines, dieting methods, or cute sayings like this one, health has always been at the center of society's concerns. None of these things, however, ever mention mental health. With a society so focused on staying healthy and fit, it’s amazing how little the subject of mental health is discussed in the media, and when it is, how often it’s considered “brave” or “taboo” to speak of such things. But, you might be saying, physical well-being is the most important focus for a long, healthy life, so there’s no need to work on mental health, right? I’m here to tell you that’s not the case. As someone who has struggled with anxiety for most of my life, I know firsthand how affected one can be by their mind as well as their body, and I know how important it is to get help when you need it. Nowadays, however, even with a slightly increased spotlight on mental health care, people still feel scared or think it unnecessary to make an effort to improve theirs or someone else’s mental health. My purpose today is to convince you to do away with that stereotype and urge you to take care of yourself mentally as well as physically, and help others do the same. When you realize how important mental health really is and spread your new-found knowledge to others, you might end up motivating someone to seek out mental care while being able to improve your own health along the way.
Society has been ignoring the importance for mental health and mental illness care for quite some time, and in a lot of cases, our overall well-being has suffered the consequences. In fact, according to a 2020 informational source from the Gale Opposing Viewpoints Online Collection, people who have dealt with depression have average lower life expectancies and higher chances of developing heart disease and high blood pressure. Because most of us have separated physical health from mental health for most of our lives, we've never realized how much of an impact our mental state can have on our physical state. This statistic shows us how connected the two really are. Their connection also works positively, with the same source stating that an increase in mental wellbeing leads to increased self-esteem and energy, along with lower levels of anxiety, in most cases. Along with our physical states, poor mental health can also negatively affect our actions. A study done by the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) stated that the Covid-19 pandemic led to harmful mental states, which, in turn, led 13% of respondents to increased substance abuse. Through this statistic, it’s evident to see that an unhealthy mind can lead a person to unhealthy practices such as alcoholism or drug abuse, which worsens their health even further. Think of how you would feel if one of your loved ones fell into substance abuse because of their poor mental health. If you had the chance to help them become less afraid and more able to improve their mental health, wouldn’t you? A scenario like this is exactly why mental health needs to be spoken about. At this point you might be saying, okay, it’s an issue. Why don’t people just get help when they know how unhealthy they are? The problem with that, however, is that mental health treatment hasn’t been normalized the same way physical health treatment has. This means that in lots of cases, even when someone recognizes that they’re mentally unhealthy, they are still very hesitant and scared to reach out for help, especially when they are younger. A 2017 Scholastic article, for example, showcases this very phenomenon, spotlighting stories of many people’s struggles with mental health and how it was hard for them to ask for or receive help. In one case, a 20 year old named Jordan shares his experience with withdrawal and anxiety, among other things, he had when he was 16. He stated that he couldn't receive help because his mother refused to get it for him, reluctant to share “family stuff” with a therapist. Jordan’s inability to get help, even though he knew he needed it, made him feel like “a bird in a cage”. In 18 year old Sammy’s case, another person interviewed by Scholastic who struggles with OCD, she said “mental illness wasn't something people traded tips on like SAT prep programs … I was terrified of people finding out”. If this stigma around mental illness continues to fester like a disease, it could be severely harmful to the next generation, teaching them to bottle up their problems until they explode into the worst possible outcomes, often death. That’s the dark side of the problem. On the bright side, there are ways to improve society’s outlook on and overall mental health. Encouraging the use of different coping skills in everyday life to lower stress levels, a common cause of mental deterioration, can result in lower levels of anxiety, clearer thinking, and improved moods, to name just a few benefits. Physical fitness is a great and effective way to lower stress, and it also helps your physical health out along the way. Going for a walk or doing yoga, as well as reaching out for counseling or coaching in times of extreme stress, can do wonders for your overall health, making you feel more focused and confident in your daily life. By helping society to focus on mental health as a treatable normalcy rather than a shameful deficiency, it can reduce the stigma around mental illness and potentially save a life. In 2018, The National Institute of Mental Health reported that suicide was the 2nd highest cause of death in people ages 10-34, with over 48,000 deaths resulting from suicide attempts. By encouraging people to receive help for mental illness, especially depression, and showing people it’s normal to mentally take care of yourself by publically taking care of your own mental health, it can decrease these statistics and prevent another child from becoming another number on a death count. Donating to mental health charities, donating to research projects, and taking action to gain more public awareness for mental health treatment, such as through demonstrations and calling for new legislation for mental health services, would also greatly benefit people across the country struggling because of their mental health. There’s no more reason to hide the true value of mental health from the world any longer. Continuing to do so will only bring more pain and suffering to yourself and the people around you, from strangers to your own loved ones. Maybe you're still not convinced mental health is worth your time, though. Let’s consider two choices: on one hand, we could continue to ignore the issue and instead choose to block out the existence of mental unwellness or diagnosed mental illness. By doing so, we’re refusing to give people help. We’re letting our health deteriorate. We’re creating bad habits by ignoring our body’s needs. And, worst of all, we continue to let others die because talking about our country’s mental health crisis is too “embarrassing”. If, however, we choose to start recognizing the importance of mental health by implementing change to better ourselves and society, it can give you and others a new sense of confidence and a boost of motivation in your life, taking away some of the stress and anxiety that bogs down your health in more ways than one. It can also give people a “powerful sense of hope” for a better tomorrow, as written by Tanya J. Peterson, a woman who struggles with bipolar disorder and anxiety. We can all agree that our health is important, and has been for our whole lives. With health being such a staple in our social values, there is no reason for mental health to be a “taboo” topic any longer. I want everyone to be able to live their healthiest lives for as long as they can, and increased mental health care can have a profound effect on people’s lives. That is why I urge you to bring mental health into the public eye by taking care of your mental health and looking out for others’ mental health as well. A small act of care, whether it be to improve your own mental health or help someone else improve theirs, can let others know that mental illness is shared and is not something to be afraid of. Put down a phone and pick up a yoga mat, or put that money towards a mental health cause instead of towards a new gaming console. Empower yourself and others; take the “taboo” out of mental health and save the lives of hundreds. Everyone has found themselves staring up at the sky and envisioning a life greater than themselves. The clouds come together like puzzle pieces as thoughts of grandiose fantasies fill our minds. Those who venture out to complete their puzzle can live some of the most rewarding lives, yet it can also ruin them if one piece were to be misplaced in their hysteria of perfection. In one of his most recognized novels, F. Scott Fitzgerald focuses on the life of one individual whose ambitions and dreams ultimately led to his destruction. Jay Gatsby, originally raised by poor Midwestern farmers, ascends to great wealth after dreaming about such things ever since he was a little boy. However, as more is revealed about Gatsby’s past, it becomes clear just how corrupt his dream is. In The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jay Gatsby’s past, where he cheats his way to his desires, illustrates the corruption of the American Dream during the 1920s.
“Couples”
You liked tech and machines; I preferred paintings and books: Achilles and Patroclus. For a while, it felt like just us: Douglas and Wilde. But things started to spiral: Michelangelo and Cavalieri. I wondered why this had to be: Whitman and Doyle. Everything had started to boil: Ginsburg and Orlovsky. I began to wonder, ‘Do you really love me?’ Johnson and Warhol. I guess not at all. “The Struggle of Getting Out of Bed” I’m Climbing up the rock wall. Grinding teeth, sweat covers my frame. Climbing towards that siren-like call The sweet sound of recognition, fame. As I climb, I feel my arms give way Is this how Icaras felt when he fell? The fall is more akin to sleeping midday Yet both are as powerful as a shrill yell Dickinson, Rice, Plath Am I destined to go down this path? Will I end face down in the bath? Looking in the mirror, a sense of wrath For what I’ve become, for where I’m going A uninterested, unmotivated, psychopath. “Honey” The night air is cold on my skin I walk into the fast food burger joint The bright, fluorescent lights above pained My eyes, I look at the underpaid cashier “How many honey packets Can I get for a dollar?” She looked bewildered at my request But I owed her no explanation She handed me four “Would you like a bag?” I shook my head And walked outside In the parking lot I sat Pouring the sweet nectar onto my tongue In my haze I thought This might make me feel better Disappointingly, it did not. “Car Ride” Songs sweet through the speaker The cramped car, brights lights, The face you make when you grin at me Which of those are the reasons I feel so warm? The punch in the gut I experience when you make me cackle. I am aware of all the particles around me. The goal of chopsticks is to get your opponent to lose both hands before you do. You have to tap the top of their hand to transfer points, and you can’t have more than five points on one hand. Each finger represents a point. But it’s not really a game you can learn to play without actually seeing it; you have to have someone walk you through the steps of chopsticks if you want to know how to play and to use its strategies.
I liked chopsticks more than I liked those other hand games, like rock-paper-scissors or odds-and-evens. Those are mostly based on chance, and though you can learn how to tell who’s going to play rock or who’s going to put up two fingers instead of one, there’s no specific strategy. I knew there was a way that you could play chopsticks so that you win every time. I had learned it a long time ago when I was ten or so, but I never actually got to put it into practice. I hadn’t played in a long time. I saw two kids playing chopsticks one day. They played silently, watching as their hands jumped on one another like hopping spiders. I thought about asking if I could play, but they were a few seats away from me, and we were supposed to be silently reading. But even if it hadn’t been silent reading time, I wouldn’t have asked anyway. I didn’t like either of them very much. I decided that I would just sit back, discard my book, and watch. One finger turned to three. Three fingers turned into five—one hand down. One finger turned into two, then one on each finger. Two on one, one on the other. Three—no, four now. Hand down. One finger wins the game. He could have won it earlier. He had three, and his opponent had two on one hand, no other hands. But I figured out that he was trying to keep the game going. Keep the anticipation going. It’s a finger game, not some high-intensity video game, but there’s no fun if there’s no suspense. I liked my English class a lot, even outside of spectating chopsticks matches during silent reading. Our teacher, Ms. Brindle, was why I liked that class. She was gentle and understanding. She wore overalls most days and kept her hair in a thin but elegant braid, and she looked like the kind of woman who knew how to paint. I liked to imagine her in a separate room of her house sometimes, sitting in the quiet and staring at a canvas—waiting for just the right idea that would make her thrust her paintbrush onto the palette and create something lovely. Silent reading in Ms. Brindle’s class lasted for thirty minutes every Friday. The last twenty minutes were usually spent with a discussion of the homework from the night before and some light lecturing. The lectures were mostly on how brilliant we were and how we’d make amazing readers if we just learned how to think like writers. “After all,” Ms. Brindle said on the same day I watched the boys play chopsticks, “the study of literature is really just the study of people—how they think and act and react, or how they form relationships and interact with one another. And what are all of you? You’re people. That said, you can maybe imagine that reading the books we read in here is really just one long-winded self-analysis... so if you walk out of here reflecting over yourself, then you’ve done something right.” I walked out of the classroom that day, mulling over her words by myself. I had my silent reading book in hand. My focus shifted from Ms. Brindle’s lecture and back to the two boys who sat in front of me in English. They started another game of chopsticks that I figured they would keep going on the bus ride home. I rode bus AF. It was a long ride, but it felt short; twenty minutes, but it felt like six and a quarter. I didn’t do much besides stare out the window or look at the sleeping kid next to me. I rode the bus with just three other students: the one freshman who slept all the time and the two boys from English. “Have a nice day, young lady,” the driver told me as I stepped off. “Thank you, sir.” One of the boys who played chopsticks, Maxwell, said goodbye to me at the very last second, just before the door coughed and closed. I heard him, though just barely: “Bye, Lora.” I wished that the bus doors could open back up so I could say goodbye back to him. I was the only one at my stop. I walked home alone, and I was never in a rush. I stood on the street corner where I was dropped off and waited, watching the bus drive past me and looking, through the dark window, at the boys who played chopsticks. The bus drove down the block and turned out of sight. I started walking in the same direction. My ankles were cold. I had worn a pair of pants which only went down to just above my ankles, and they were baggy, so the chilly, autumn air that rushed by circulated in my pant legs and started to frost over my ankles. The sky was grey, and I loved it. I thought of soft, icy brush strokes being patted over a canvas in the sky—add a little bit of tapping with the end of a 3-inch brush. The clouds looked light, as if they weren’t going to squeeze out rain for another few days, but I had a feeling that it would rain soon. I could smell it. It was a discrete but sharp twinge of rich soil that had been conflated with the crisp, freezing air. I loved those grey days. Across the street was a large park. It was positioned next to a daycare center and backed up by a line of trees which huddled together in one long line, like a wall dividing the park and the few acres of thick, thorny, prickly woods. I didn’t go into the woods much. I went a few times with my cousins in middle school, but on our third trip there, I stepped on a snake and ended up having to go to the hospital. I had a routine for walking home. I put my earbuds in and waited for the bus to turn the corner a block away. Then I walked the same way, keeping my eyes on the treeline and the park until I had passed them. Then I’d turn the corner and cross the street, and I would always look for the bus at the far end of the road. I was never able to actually see it. I walked past two houses before turning my head. Your house was right there—the third one from the corner. There were plants growing out of your rusty gutters. Your house was beautiful. The sidings needed to be replaced, and the maze between the bricks needed to be cleaned out, and there were weeds popping out of your driveway cracks, but all of those things made it so very lovely. The house was white, but there were parts where the material was so dirty that it looked like a cookies-and-cream milkshake. There was a bird’s nest on your roof too, just over the garage. You had spiderwebs in the corners of your awning, hanging between the pillars and the flower baskets, whose occupants had all dried up and wilted. Your porch light was broken as well. The bulb still worked, but the glass around it had shattered. You had two chairs on your porch. One was a plain, white lawn chair—one with a crooked leg that made the chair move every time you shifted your balance. The other chair was more elegant, fashioned with some dark bronze material and decorated at the head with an intricate floral design. Between the two chairs was a small, glass table. It had a white ashtray and a pack of cigarettes on it at all times. It was the same cigarette pack; it never moved, and it was never released from its exterior packaging. You waved as I passed. You waved to me every day. Do you remember? I hope you do. You sat on the porch every day and watched me walk down the street, and when I passed by, you waved to me, and I waved to you. I really hope you remember. “Get home safe,” you told me each day. The chair was your wife’s, wasn’t it? The empty chair next to yours. You always had one hand on the armrest. It belonged to someone who mattered, and that’s why it was still there. There was an empty chair in my house too. A chair that belonged to someone who mattered—just like your lawn chair. It belonged to someone who knew how to paint. § My mother had a stroke a few months before I moved out for college. No one saw it coming. But does anyone expect these kinds of things before they happen? If they did, I don’t think strokes or heart attacks would kill anyone. I don’t think anyone would ever get hurt. I remember the day it happened. Do you? I stopped in front of your house on my way home. You raised your hand weakly and smiled. I looked at your hand—the four fingers, and the space where your pinky should have been. I had seen the space where your pinky should have been before, but this time I wondered where your pinky finger had gone. Did it have something to do with the veteran’s cap you wore every day? The dark blue baseball cap with the strange, colorful print on the top? I never saw it clearly enough to know what color went where. I only knew it was the type of design on veteran’s clothing. You served when you were younger. Is that how you lost your finger? “It’s my last day of school. I graduate tomorrow.” You said to me, “And you’re walking home alone? Where are your friends?” “I never paid enough attention to make any. None besides you.” “Am I your friend?” You laughed. I said, “I hope so.” “But I don’t know your name, young lady. I should know my friend’s name.” You gripped the empty chair’s armrest. “All these years and I never asked for it.” “It’s Loretta. People call me Lora sometimes, but I like Loretta more.” A charmingly sad smile slipped onto your old, wrinkly face. “Why, that was my wife’s name. Loretta.” The way you said it made me so sore. I can’t even think about how painful it was. It was like you were saying it and hoping it could fill the empty chair next to you. It was like you were recalling every sweet moment spent dancing in the kitchen and blowing bubbles in the backyard and painting nursery rooms. I wanted to walk up to you and sit down in the empty chair, but I didn’t. I knew my name wasn’t enough to fill the chair. “You should tell people to call you Loretta. It’s a beautiful, beautiful name.” “From now on, I will.” You gave me your name too. Bailey. And after I said goodbye to you that day, I put your name in one of the far corners of my mind and went on home. There was an ambulance in front of my house, and a gurney wheeled my mother out—bump, bump, bump, bump, right down the porch steps. Down the driveway, into the flashing ambulance. It wailed and rushed off just as I got onto my lawn, leaving me behind. I remember the way it felt like my heart had stopped. I listened to the siren ringing in my head. I couldn’t move. I stayed on the lawn for a few minutes before the neighbor came across the street and offered to have me in for tea. My mom didn’t die, just so you know. Some people die from strokes, but she didn’t. But I could tell that when she got home that she’d lost little parts of herself that she’d never get back. The empty chair in my house used to belong to her. Mom used to be a woman who knew how to paint. She would sit in the room next to mine for hours upon hours, a palette in her right hand and a paintbrush in her left. I could sometimes hear her pacing while I did my homework. She would gasp on occasion. It was as if she had been waiting for just the right idea, and suddenly it came to her so that she would thrust her paintbrush onto the palette and go on to create something so, so lovely. The studio fell out of use after she came home from the hospital. Mom got tired—too tired to sit and paint, and too tired to hold a brush up in her left hand. The room got dusty. The easel began to lean to the right. The curtains were pulled down, and the paint brushes were pushed further back on the table. Dad covered the dozens of paintings with tarps and old sheets, and he shelved the paint boxes. The door stayed closed unless hope willed us to open it and peek inside the desolate graveyard of colors and ideas, but we would always close it right back up. Dad didn’t take the easel down, and he didn’t move the chair, and it was because we all had lost something we hoped we could get back. So I have an empty chair in my house too. One almost just like yours. § Ms. Brindle was the reason I chose language arts for my major three years ago. I didn’t know what exactly I wanted to do with it, and I still don’t. All I knew was that I wanted to study people and learn about myself. I got assigned this one project. It’s part of a nonfiction segment for my creative writing course. Write a letter about someone who has affected your life. To be honest, I knew from the very second I heard the assignment name to whom I would write. We were supposed to go on about how huge an impact this person had on our lives. Everyone I’ve asked so far has picked a parent, a sibling, an elementary-school teacher. Maxwell wrote about his dog. He had me peer review it for him. I thought it was funny. His dog’s name was Murphy, and Murphy was an ugly, little thing, apparently. But he’d lived for twenty years alongside Maxwell before dying in his sleep, so he mattered, even if he was just a dog. Maxwell and I became friends after we found out we were going to the same school after graduation. He and I played chopsticks the other day. We got bored in Mexican-American Literature 101. Maxwell won every time. “You suck at this, Loretta,” he whispered, glancing up at the teacher as he took his twelfth win. “You’re just a cheater.” We both snorted and started another game. I remembered that I hadn’t played in so long. The last time I’d played chopsticks was with my mom. I was ten. The next time I visit home, I’ll ask her if she wants to try, and she’ll say yes because she and I used to love chopsticks. We’ll probably have to stop playing when she gets tired. And then she’ll go and take a nap on my dad’s shoulder while he watches football. I’ll take a walk to give them space. I’ll walk past your house, maybe rounding the neighborhood so that I can take my old route home—the one I walked for four years back in high school. I hope I’ll see you on the porch, but I know I won’t. Your chair has been empty since last summer. And I know that, when I pass by your house and see your chair as empty as my mom’s and your wife’s, but that’s okay. I’ll have something to think about. Mrs. Brindle might tell me that means I’m doing something right The lacing, interweaving network below bears heavy battle scars;
Colonies of birds never static. Always late. Time counting down… until there is no time. Trails end. Footprints float into the earth. Silence slips in with a grin. Trees play tricks, growing human: hands, fingers, eyes. Too many eyes. Nothing unnoticed. The air is thick with fear and uncertainty; thick with stillness and muddy black coating that seeps into the lungs. Dripping deeper until it mixes with the blood, replaces the water, fills the muscles, and spreads across the skin. Perfectly blending with the shadows that occupy the woods. Bathed in wander. Dressed in shadow. The Woods. Took away title The kelp sways with the gentle rhythm of the current, but risks its death at every sway; The jellyfish is welcomed by the current, guiding food to its timely end. The light of the moon dances and skips, spreading her limbs over the vast and great unknown. The glow puts on a show. A show of skill. A show of wonder. A show of death. Her soft glow morphs into a blinding spotlight, aligning for the shark, The unlucky creature makes a move behind the shark’s clock- too late. Its skull. Its blood. Its brain. One with the water. One with the mist. Bathed in fear. Dressed in mist. The Ocean. Took away title The wild wind comes in waves: the earth’s source of transportation; The desert lily bulb pauses time, hungry for rain but trapped eternally in earth’s hands. Eyes met with nothing new. Until the sun rests his eyes and spills the bottle of ink… Air introduced to night yet again. To night’s freezing touch. To night’s infamous blanket of ice. But overlaid the murk peeks light. Light that stomps across night leaving no mark but the mark of light. Night grabs her throat, eyes ablaze, finally overcome as the stars do as they do best. Bathed in loneliness. Dressed in stars. The Desert. Who am I talking to: the judge and jury in the courtroom
What do I want: I want to finish my revenge against my family by killing my uncle (this is the most important death to me); I want the jury to let me free so I can do this How am I going to get it: By telling them my backstory and about what my uncle did to me and made me into; make them understand and feel my pain My uncle has been in control of my life ever since I was born. I was an unwanted pregnancy, parents didn’t want me; they saw me as a burden, but my uncle? He saw me as a business opportunity; something that he could play with without any consequence. So, he tested a few different black market drugs on me when I was a baby; strength enhancers, adrenaline shots, but they didn’t do anything. At least, not then. But his brainwashing was strong. At the age of eight, he put a handgun in my palm and told me to shoot the wall. Then a test dummy. Then an enemy. I became his personal assassin, did all the dirty work that he never had the guts to do himself. Disgusting coward. Of course, I was never allowed to have any friends. Connections with people makes it harder to kill. They were only names on a list. And besides, my uncle said, why make friends when you have a family? (dry laugh) I guess he was right. It was my stupid impulse to have a friend that got me into this mess. Mandy-that was her name-was the only friend that I’ve ever had. But, of course, my uncle found a way to ruin it. Apparently, she was part of a rival mafia, and he wanted me to kill her to send a message, and if I didn’t, he would kill the whole family instead. So, I told her to meet me in the park for a “get-together”. I should’ve been able to pull the trigger. I’ve done it before, I told myself, so just pull it, pull it, kill her! (pause) But, damnit, I couldn’t do it. She could do it, though. She pulled a knife, cut me across the face, grabbed my gun and shot me between the eyes. I let my guard down for one second, and the only person that I cared about took advantage of me, just like my family. I repaid the favor as soon as I woke and shot her in the back. But I won’t bore you with my power discovery sob story, because right now, it doesn’t matter. What matters is my mission. This healing ability that I have has been a blessing for me. You see, it’s given me a purpose: kill everyone in my vile family until they’re all six feet under. And you have the power to let me do just that! I can rid the streets of this city of the most dangerous mafia lineage there ever was, doing what you all don’t have the stomach to handle. And there’s only one name left on my list. I know where he is, I know how to get to him, and I know exactly how to destroy him. Uncle, no matter what happens here, no matter what their decision is, I’m coming for you. They may control me now, but when I get out of here? (grim smile) It’ll be a family reunion like no other. When we were younger, you told us we could be anything we wanted to be.
So we looked up to you with the universe in our eyes And told you that we wanted to be astronauts. You replied with “Anything is possible, as long as you put your mind to it”. So now that we are demanding change, You tell us that we are too young to know what we are talking about. But what are we too young to know? Too young to know that we should not be killed in our schools. Too young to know that we are destroying our Earth. Too young to know that we deserve rights to make choices about our own bodies. Too young to know that mental health is just as or even more important than physical health? Too young to know that people should not be killed because of the color of their skin. Too young to know that our justice system is broken. Too young to know that families should not be pulled apart. Too young to know what love is. Too young to know that despite the laws that have been passed, people are still sexist, racist and homophobic. Are we too young? Or are you too scared to accept the fact that we know what is going on in society? We want to make a change in this world, And we are no longer scared to fight, Because we’ve had to do it so many times. So, do not tell us to stand up for what we believe in, just to turn back around and get mad when you do not like what we have to say. You can beat us down a hundred times, But we will keep rising up and fighting back like the tides; we will be the ones left standing. So if I were you, I would take a step back and let us be the change, Let us undue the wrongs of past generations, Because ready or not, It’s our turn now, The revolution is coming, And we will be the change with or without you. |
E-boardPresident - Ella Hart Our CollectionA selection of our favorite pieces submitted by our members, as well as some of our club activities. |