Submission Possibilities

Hi guys!

So I’m part of my school’s literary magazine staff and our deadline for submissions is coming up.
“Emma” got accepted, but I’d like to put in a few more of my pieces.
Any suggestions? It can be both prose and poetry.






I’m tired of explaining to strangers not to come near me, because my misery does not take solace in company, and I’m worried that sadness can be contagious. 

I’m never ready when our song comes on the radio, and I don’t know how we went from lovers to enemies so quickly. Now every love song reminds me of my failures and blaming him doesn’t make this easy.

I’m not searching for his replacement but no matter how many new people I kiss, I can never get the taste of him out of my memories. I asked my therapist how can I hate someone but still want to be with them, she said that’s just how love works sometimes. 

I didn’t want to shake his hand and pretend we were mere acquaintances. I wanted to shake him into sanity and make him love me again, but that would be the very…

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Child’s Play

Climb over me like I am your jungle gym.

Let our limbs entwine until there is a mixture of monkey bars and fireman’s poles.

Aim for the top and please do not stop until you are standing above the playground.

Lay me down gently.

The only fears you have now are falling,

having your breath knocked out of you if you don’t hit the ground correctly.


I am not one for games.

I will let you venture all over me,

swinging freely and defying gravity.

I realized,

I don’t need to fear falling,

because whenever you are near I am always short of my air supply.

Pull yourself up on me,

sitting along the tops and let your legs dangle in the breeze.

My body folds itself into the curve of your side,

our legs and arms and hands intertwined.

Slide down from me,

as the sun sings

her song of morning
breaking through the windows.

You awaken with a smile upon your face to pull me closer.

You repeatedly kiss the top of my head and

I am content, with my cheek against your collarbone, and your fingers tracing

the goosebumps that rose

upon my shoulders,

speckling my skin with my excitement and anticipation of your closeness;

the tightness in my chest.


stay in bed a little while with me.

In here,

we don’t have to worry about a bell ringing.

Dirty Girl


You must be too pretty for your own good.

Maybe you gave him the wrong impression,

because when his smile turned into a leer,

you didn’t run.

When he waited for you to walk by

just to tell you
“You look better in dresses than anything else”

You kept your tongue in cheek,

not wanting to say anything.

It had to be a one time thing.

Because your co-workers wouldn’t take you seriously,

why would they, when every other person complained about his perversity?

Because it’s okay, to be complimented,

by a man 30 years your senior.

So, when in the middle of conversation he tells you to turn around,

don’t question it.

You must stand still

when his fingers brush along your neck,

and always reply “yes”

when he is calling your name.

Otherwise you are wrong,

and you’re making all of this up.

What are you talking about?

They never even saw him take a glance your way.

And even if he did—


just roll with it.

It doesn’t matter if

only seconds ago he was talking about his daughter,

and then minutes later he has his hands on both your shoulders,

because you wore a skirt to work

and “It’s nice to have somebody who dresses like a girl for a change.

“Come over here more often.”

Because I’m sure he meant it dotingly,

Your cringing was simply over-exaggerating.

I mean he’s only 60 something.


And by now,

you should know better than to dress up for yourself.

Because if you don’t impress men,

what’s the point of dressing up?


And now that you mention it,

they’ll tell you it’s merely nothing.

That’s he’s just a creepy old man,

but he’s never really ‘done’ anything.

And they will wonder why when he calls your name,

you flinch and shut your eyes.

And when it gets to the point

where you can’t even walk by

his department without feeling his stare,

maybe it is time to inform those upstairs.

In the plush HR office,

they will tell you they’ll do something about it,

but you shouldn’t have provoked him.

They will tell you it will be taken care of,

but he’ll still have a job.

And you should feel guilty,

when they look at you sideways.

And you should feel guilty,

he no longer speaks to you now.

And you should feel guilty for saying something,

And you should feel guilty for thinking so highly of yourself because—


don’t you know

these men were merely stating

that you are very pretty,


you are too pretty,

too damn pretty for your own good.

So I don’t know how I feel about this one,

I was experimenting with a different style

and letting my fingers flow over keys

and finding rhyme,

while trying to make rhythm

and yeah,

I want to record this as if it’s spoken word.

So here it is:


I am caught between

telling you I’m

damaged goods

and that you really can’t do better than me.

These are the height of two extremes.

You are inhaling me,

taking in everything and

I can’t comprehend if it is


or frightening,

whether I should feel enlightened

or warn you of what would

happen if I was invited

into your bloodstream.


you cannot exhale me.

Noxious and odious and


My history becomes your reality

and you wonder why you never saw the unseen;

porcelain pieces chipping

off masks and I am dipping

my toe in a grave too fast,

too vast to take in all my apologies,

the weak “I’m sorry”s,

praying confidence will cut into me

with a rusted blade only if to make my skin bleed

out all the iniquities of self doubt

and self-hate and I am

my own monstrosity

and you are wrapping arms around me

and I am clinging, shaking,

saying sorry and

you squeeze tighter

and we sit there in silence

in madness

in the consequences of the wreck

that comes with all my baggage

for a moment too long until

I realize

you are


while embracing

all the good that comes with the bad

my twisted past and self-deprivation,


All I know is this:

You may just be

A fluke

And I might be crazy

But you are more than just happenstance;

You are undeserving beauty

You just might be the one

That saves me.

100 Word Poem

*Another thing for Creative Writing II; Feedback appreciated*

If forest fires ran rampant over my skin,

Would you quell each one with your fingertips?

If I brought destruction in my wake,

Would you tell cities not to fear my flames,

And burn down blissfully into oblivion?

This is not light beneath my skin.

You confuse me for the sun,

But there is no horizon to which I’m sinking in.

I am well reminded

of my bitter imprints:

Blisters, peeling skin, and freckled flesh.

You will never be sun-kissed,

But rather sear under my very own fingertips.

If I ignite irrationally,

Will you still wrap your arms around me?