Daffodil
by Anonymous
1st place long poetry
Daffodil,
Perhaps, you thought,
Having sex with a stranger would end this
Restless need for adventure
Impersonal as it is, the intimacy is beautiful
In its own raw fashion.
Foreign hands feel up beating bodies
Sweat glistens and smells almost sickly sweet
Of honey and strawberry wine.
Skin glows warm hues
Like the burning of alcohol,
Puke coloured carpet
And horny 9 o’clock skies.
You secretly listen in
On the pitter patter of their heart
In the smallest hope
Of hearing a kind of soft melody
Only to find the mechanic echo
Of a freight train going
Nowhere very fast.
You wake up alone
To the desperate skies of dawn
And a sad love that lingers.
I poured a bowl of cereal this morning
we’re out of milk.
much love, lily
Lily my Love,
Yes, maybe I’m addicted
To the smell of Polo or Versace
Holding me close
To the beating of hearts
Humming a melody that sounds like
real human connection
Heroin or marijuana or tobacco or ecstasy soaked
lovers who will be gone in the morning
Never to be heard from again
My addiction is false intimacy
Because there’s nothing like coming home at midnight
smelling like a future ex
But for that moment in time
I’m not alone
And my restless need for adventure is over
Until the next 9 o’clock sky
I don’t even take milk with my cereal, love.
Love Always, Daffodil
Yellow Room
By: McKenzie Pineda
1st place short poetry
Your ceiling is white—
Typical.
Who paints their ceiling?
I started to count the tiny divots.
I always lose track.
I think there’s about sixty.
Maybe I should start paying attention
To your bookcase next.
Half of your collection is about love.
This isn’t love.
After you finish, I stare at your face.
Your expression never changes.
You always slur the same words I ignore.
Why do I keep coming back?
When I leave, I feel the same.
. . .
I now know you have seventy-eight books—
All about love
And one hundred and forty-two divots
On your white ceiling.