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Sundays at Nonna’s Arts 

Sundays at Nonna’s

My grandmother always frowned At her reflection. “La vecchiaia è brutta,” she would say  With a sigh as she looked down  At her hands, Where she saw deep folds and wrinkles  In her skin,  Like they were one of my grandfather’s shirts, Which she was unable to smooth out.   With resolve, she chose to drain the water  From her eyes into a pot, Where it began to boil The raw dough she kneaded With the valleys of her hands.  She served us dinner with tomato sauce From her veins,…

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Current Affairs Arts 

Current Affairs

Racism is dead In their eyes but not in mine I will not forget I am dead inside But I continue to live To spite all of them Dear mom, I am sad ‘Cause of what my life became I want to improve Home was never here It was inside all along Living in our hearts I am not your doll I will not be soft for you I will not be yours By Depressed Asian

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Regression to the mean Arts 

Regression to the mean

Nothing is permanent, So why should my anxiety be?   Dark clouds are carried off by strong winds, Storms are drained dry, Hurricanes exist to self-destruct.   Every cloud’s fate is to dissipate, Every ray of sunshine dies out, Every mean is returned to.   Math was never my forte though, So how can I find the mean of my anxiety?   By Sophie Dufresne

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Inexistence  Arts 

Inexistence 

There is a debate in society On whether or not I exist. Not on whether or not I should exist, Or on whether or not I deserve rights, But on whether or not I exist.   The sheer thought  Of the possibility  I might wake up tomorrow, To learn that I don’t exist, That I might unite with the void, Melt into nothingness, Have the memory of me erased from this planet, All because the conservatives emerged victorious from this debate, And the world must accept the harsh truth: “Everyone…

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Some Thoughts on Ancient History Arts 

Some Thoughts on Ancient History

My grandfather amidst An earthquake, A stone-hard marble pillar Of a man, Remains cold, always, Even to the touch; He holds up his end Of the fortress With clipped words, Riddled with hard edges That slip through the cracks Of a curled upper lip.   My grandfather amidst  The aftermath, Some stone-hard marble ruins Of a man, Remains still, always, Even when watched; He holds up his pieces Of the crumbling site With resonating silence, Amplified by a sense of finality That draws in the ears Of wandering pilgrims.  …

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Acquaintance Arts 

Acquaintance

It seems like it’s been a while Since they last saw each other. They engage in small talk And, as sugar drips from their lips, They revel in its sweetness, Having forgotten the taste Of exchanging pleasant, Velvety words, Delivered softly, Smoothly Yet, crushed. By Fin  

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Eggshells Arts 

Eggshells

For years, I’ve been walking on eggshells. Year after year, They became thinner and thinner, Until the day they cracked. But instead of being covered With egg yolk and egg white, Instead of becoming A greasy yellow and A bright transparent, I was covered with the blood Of the person I once was.   By Sophie Dufresne

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Escapade Arts 

Escapade

With eyes squinting shut, As they stare into the sun, Dazed, We run up the spiral staircase In a dizzying haze. With hands brushing past, As they reached towards each other, Smiling, We held on tightly To the rusting metal railing. With nowhere left to go, As we reach the final step, Laughing, We reach up to pound our fists, And shatter the glass ceiling. By Fin  

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