I had twelve cats

one was named Snowball

and if you asked me about the others,

well, their names changed every time

you know when you were a kid

and you really wanted a cookie,

or five more minutes,

or a puppy,

or whatever

but your parents said no?

you know how that made you want it more?

I think because my parents told me

don’t tell lies

don’t tell lies

I told lies

and how could they stop me?

it was forbidden, but it was so easy

now one thing I can say

in all honesty:

I don’t have the best relationship with truth

Raine

This year, in the Kingdom of Fall.

The season that’s

Seasoned with spices

Made from crisp brown leaves

Crushed and bashed

Into flakes.

It’s sensational

And extravagant,

The annual celebration is held in the fall season for a reason.

Cam

They look like humans,

They talk like humans,

They act like humans,

But behind closed doors,

They shed their skin off

And they are nothing but

Green scaled and yellow eyed

Monsters. 

When you are alone

Do you too

Shed your human skin

To reveal the skin of a monster?

I know I do. 

Cella 🦎

swimming, shivering, laughing

hands sticky with watermelon

salt washes sweetness away

she goes back to school

and no one asks what happened

because it’s clear 

in the way he

sits on the other side of the classroom now,

in the way they 

don’t hold hands in the hallway now,

in the way she

can’t look him in the eyes

cobalt blue

Raine

Because one must look

And not just see.

Below the sea

Set by the scene

With the sheen

Of the light waves shining through deep water and the windows of the Mermaid’s Ballroom.

The Ailouros Pearl is a treasure.

Cam

young girls in a cardboard house in the middle of the French countryside

flowers in the soil to mark the places a dead cat walked

multicolour clips holding clothes in place on a laundry line

chinese checkers

“Oh Susanna” on the piano until both of us go insane

smoke in my hair, on my clothes

flies like banshees as I lay awake, cocooned in the heat wave

a public pool with a plastic waterslide

dust sticking to my fingers as I let them peruse shelves of books untouched for decades

ugly roses from the garden, picked by hands who’ve just barely escaped the bees

spilled wine dripping from a wooden table onto grass like dew

women who age too quickly to take down the clothes they put up in the morning

sunlight flashing off of our rings as we run hand in hand

willing our feet to move faster as if we could escape the end of July