The Real Anti Social Club 

Matt Riggs

Long Poetry

I don't want to sugarcoat it

And say that I'm an introvert,

Even though that's what I do.

See, I want to be honest 

And let people know

My sociopathic tendencies

Come from the trauma

Only a 3 week dance with Death 

In Spain can give you.

I'd like to think 

Being an oxymoron personified

Is a lot tougher on a standout citizen than it is 

For those they hurt.

After all, I throw my butts away

After harsh second-hand 

Drags and opinions

Jolt your sympathetic nervous system.

I promise I don't want to hurt 

Those close enough to hear the smoke,

But that smoke passes through me like daydreams, 

And I'm the same as you.
 

I know on paper

I'm more like the people 

Who are scared of me

-that's something we have in common-

Than the piercing yellow eyes

On my second skin,

But my warped sense of 

Reality says

I'm misunderstood 

And that's all I'll ever be.

But when I stare

And cannot have intimacy

With what it means to feel

I think that Google might have some merit.
 

Not making time

To send a text

Isn't The Problem

Even though it makes me 

Look like it.

But it's because

I fucking hate emojis

Being required

To make hieroglyphics 

Decipherable.

Cus thru txt

I sound disinterested,

When if we were on the phone

My words would leave your head ringing

Like Deep Purple.

Shower Thoughts

Kassandra Villareal

Long Poetry

I don’t want to use the word.

If I use the word, it becomes real.

Real as the way my lover elbows me during the night⎯ the bruises I am left with sweet and aching.

Real as the way hot coffee burns my tongue, searching for its new home in my stomach.

Real as the way my hair tangles in the wind⎯ mountain air- cold in my plum locks.

 

The word will become me.

It will become the definition of my ribcage, the crevices in my collar bones.

The word will carve the infinite space between my ham sized thighs; it will sculpt the fixtures of my too large hip bones out of fragile clay.

 

The word will fixate me into space.

I will no longer be able to eat tea for breakfast and depression naps for lunch.

I cannot lay in a steaming shower waiting for the water to wash away the excess skin and muscle.

I will not be able to think away cravings- the earthquake from the bottom of my diaphragm.

 

Sometimes I think myself into the circus, using a funhouse mirror.

Every fiber in the middle of my body extended by six inches.

I am carrying myself and all the oceans.

 

I cannot fit every body of water and a full thanksgiving meal in my small, frail, five-foot frame. So, instead, I eat my thoughts. I shovel in literature and eat my studies for all my meals.

 

When would there be time to remember?

When would there be time to stop?

When would there be time for anything, but admire the way my stomach keeps shrinking into my back?

 

I don’t want to use the word.

 

Because if I use the word, it becomes real.

To My Friend Who Lost a Piece of Herself 

Samara Roberts

Long Poetry

“There is hope”

And now

A piece of your future

Is in a bright blue bag.

The stem shaped hole

Inside you

Is a seed for loneliness

Where you thought you had

No more room

For such things.

 

You cry

For fear

You will never hear

The cries

Of your children --

You love them before

They are

In your arms.

 

So what now?

“Hope” was a lie

 

Now

“Healing” is a lie

 

Nobody

To kiss the bruises

On your soul

“They should

At least be green

By now” --

Their angry red

Makes your friends

Feel helpless

 

And even

As your crimson loss

Takes root

And blooms

I see you

Healing

In your own

Weak way

 

I love you

I wish I could break open your pain

Like an egg

Into a bright blue bag and

Trade it for

A promise

Anon 

Jaden Dapilmoto

Short Poetry

What is the vast nothingness? Do we bear its truth?

Let it cover those that want it most.

Need not over the opposing, but the craving.

Be not bathed in it;

Submerge thee into the light,

And lie here for eternity.

Dandelion 

Amber Harris

Short Poetry

Tangled hair, no porcelain face,

Sweatpants, no mesh and lace,

No body like silicone,

A dandelion all alone.

A weed that grows beside the flower bed,

Violets, tulips, pink and red. 

You would look at me if I was a rose,

But this is not how the story goes.

 

Dirty shoes, no glossy lips,

A far off look, no curvy hips,

No silver, gold, or pearls, or beads,

Just a wish upon dandelion seeds,

Blown away, my thoughts are scatted,

My leaves are brown and heart is tattered,

For you would look at me if I was a rose,

But this is not how the story goes.

 

To fight each day, each sun, each moon,

To wait until the day I bloom,

But you won’t love me because I’m not a rose,

This is how the story goes.

House Fires 

Kassandra Villareal

Short Poetry

I watch his house burn.

The flames try to escape past his teeth, his jaw clenched to hold in the chaos.

The panic stale inside his lungs spark the flames, it gathers his ribcage for the campfire.

The heat rips the paint off his walls; it takes his spine and burns its way to his collapse.

He sits on his knees with his fingers held firm in his knotted hair, the soot collecting at the bottom of his soles.

 

The next day, he molds picture frames out of the soot, and hangs them on the ash covered walls.