By Sonya Caldwell-Sigler
I said I was sorry you are hurting but I'm not.
I'm actually wondering if your pain is anything like the pain you left us in.
When we cried for you. Cried to you. Begged you to come get us. Save us. Remember us.
You didn't. You never did.
You never said sorry.
You remember it in a way to protect yourself.
We remember it in a way to never again give you the power to hurt us.
We don't forgive you.
We forgave ourselves.
We moved on.
Our childhood lingered in the air like unspoken words.
We speak now.
We speak with actions.
We speak loudly about breaking the cycle.
We scream, "We won't repeat history!"
The cycle is broken.
Our love for each other wins.
The love for our children wins.
We get to write how our stories will end.
You were only one chapter.
My story will continue without you.
By Sophia Plecas Warren
I touched lost water.
Running through puddles
and up into woolen socks
and swollen feet.
I don’t know if you felt my teeth rub against yours,
but I swallowed scrapes and bleeding gums.
And I sucked against broken capillaries
and I drenched myself in spewed saliva and frost bitten toes.
We went far from here.
There were roads and signs
and gas station restrooms with no toilet paper.
And there were sunglasses tried on in giggles
and nascar jackets
and children’s basketballs
and raccoon tails.
I held the pump and your hand rested over mine as
you taught me how to clip it into place so I could sit in the heat of our car,
contacts fogging and eyes tearing.
You trimmed my fingernails in shitty motels,
let the clippings fall onto stained carpeting,
tv blaring in the background.
I remember open palms
and the way yours never met mine
and the way that you clawed deep into my lifeline
and held tight as blood pooled.
I never said stop because it meant nothing.
But you wrapped fists around my spine
and there was nowhere else to go
but to stay
and rest my head back against a rickety headboard.
You taught nothing
but I learned to look into the mirror
and see the back of my head
and the clasp that held my grandmother’s pearls against my lightning neck.
I wanted your strings to vibrate against my open stomach.
This is our showcase page, containing various submissions from various Authors. Please look for snippets about the Authors following their pieces.