anya, ohioan, 18. art & psychology major at osu, creator of art, admirer of words, learning to be self-secure, in love with a boy.

there is a light that has gone out in me;
i’ve raised thunderstorm to strike you
and shaken your bedroom walls for you
to touch me somewhere besides my body.

something inside me is swollen and wilted;
plant your seeds where you will nourish them.


i wake up with eyelids swollen of you
and limbs too heavy to lift.
you are the anchor and the ocean,
the bubbles that carry my pleas
to the surface.

my lungs collapse and the hollowness 
bring a sweet pleasure 
and i feel you 
carry me home.

existence is a heavy thing

for moment i forgot
i lived in my own skin
and leaped out of the dust
of my own heaviness.

the world is quiet again
when my eyelids creak
like door hinges opening
for me to jump back
into reality from
my daydreams.

1:49 AM

You could never see
how lonely you make me feel
when I am with you.


i wish you loved me
the way i love you;

i wish you loved me
with a man’s heart
instead of a boy’s,

or maybe it’s my own
that’s too empty.


I grew up with boys who worried
about the size of their penises
while the girls starved, whittled away
to make room for them.

I came home in tears to my mother
one afternoon from school;
dirt was kicked into my eyes
and my braids pulled undone,
but she said, “boys will be boys.”

I spent evenings emptying my dinner
into the toilet bowl and I couldn’t decide
whether my throat hurt burned more
than fist shaped bruises on my arms did.
I let him ink my skin because simply
he needed to erase away my flesh.
I felt him inside my throbbing veins.

They painted over the walls with white
to hide the lipstick and blood
the same way he made it known
that “boys will be boys.”


i’m falling ceaselessly out of time
and you lift my chin, tell me
not to be too sad today.

i hear them singing all around me
of songs about loveless love,
and they hook their anchors
on my heart to send me away.

i woke up next to a ghost of sheets.
they took you away, and i realized 
i’m only missing a home.
give me a reason to stay
when i hear the ticking
but the hands don’t spin.

if this is love,
take me back home.

18 locks

there will be a day
i don’t hush myself,
shut my eyes,
and hide my face
over my sad,
half eaten lunch.

i am a wooden,
splintered door,
wearing 18 locks
on the wrong side
of the wall.

there will be a night
i can sleep upon
my own will.

over you

i flip the pillow
so you don’t see
the mascara stains
from crying over you.

i tell you i fell
so you don’t know
the scars on my hand
are from hurting
over you.

i fold the sheets
so you don’t see
the sheets tossed
from worrying
who you think about
at night.

i bite my lip
so you don’t know
i just want
to feel love
without asking for it.

he was

with arms like the wist of the wind
he held me with
the gentle cradle of a breeze.
for years i did not see him;
his presence haunted me
although i invited him
without even the slightest
of motions.

he was the leaves in the autumn
rushing under my feet
to feel my human weight
on his crisp, thistle veins.
he was the snow 
braided into my hair —
wet and latching, grabbing
onto my frigid cheeks.

he was the cigarette smoke
of past lovers;
dancing around my face
but never quite stinging my eyes.
i never could bathe his sweet scent away.

mirror gleamed on my body
on my darkest nights
and i felt his warm hands.
it was a cruel yearning 
of my mind — at least,
i thought it so.

i never believed in ghosts
but he absorbed me
with his heavenly gaze.
he was the sleeping pills
sliding through my raw throat,
the wine dripping from my lips.

i met him halfway through.