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LEO Literary Journal Issue Three
December 2023
Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design. Follow Her On Instagram @Irina369Tall @IrinaNov4155
The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. In her works, she raises themes of ecology, in 2005 she devoted a series of works to the Chernobyl disaster, draws on anti-war topics. The first big series she drew was The Red Book, dedicated to rare and endangered species of animals and birds. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates short stories. She draws various fantastic creatures: unicorns, animals with human faces, she especially likes the image of a man - a bird - Siren. In 2020, she took part in Poznań Art Week. Her work has been published in magazines: Gupsophila, Harpy Hybrid Review, Little Literary Living Room and others. In 2022, her short story was included in the collection "The 50 Best Short Stories", and her poem was published in the collection of poetry "The wonders of winter".
The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. In her works, she raises themes of ecology, in 2005 she devoted a series of works to the Chernobyl disaster, draws on anti-war topics. The first big series she drew was The Red Book, dedicated to rare and endangered species of animals and birds. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates short stories. She draws various fantastic creatures: unicorns, animals with human faces, she especially likes the image of a man - a bird - Siren. In 2020, she took part in Poznań Art Week. Her work has been published in magazines: Gupsophila, Harpy Hybrid Review, Little Literary Living Room and others. In 2022, her short story was included in the collection "The 50 Best Short Stories", and her poem was published in the collection of poetry "The wonders of winter".
Driving Lessons
by Autumn Newman
Watch the green cornfields so neat in their rows.
I start to cry as you start to shout.
Snapping your fingers in front of my nose:
I’ll give you something to cry about!
Shocked still my body pulls tight as a screw.
Wind from the window is pulsing and loud.
I am nothing, nothing but a dog to you.
I will not cower; I am too proud.
Light up a smoke, and blow the match out.
Dig my long nails deep into my palm.
Take a long drag, and blow the smoke out.
Look at the nail marks deep in my palm.
It’s always the same, but it always feels new.
Shocked still my body pulls tight as a screw.
Black Birds Flying
by Autumn Newman
but I have a self to recover, a queen.
~Sylvia Plath, “Stings”
We rise, and the blue sky is filled with our song
and the beating of wings in the wind.
We throw shadows, holding the sun on our backs.
We catch wind and release all our weight.
We weave up and down and across. So close
we are one bird trilling the sky.
Recovery
by Autumn Newman
Addiction is a baby bird--
featherless, raw; with eyes still sealed
shut; it’s head tilted back too far;
mouth always open; body pulsing
with ceaseless chirps. But I grew talons
and kicked each bald chick out of my nest.
The 12 Steps: A Love Poem
by Autumn Newman
Lean into
belief in
a higher
existence.
Admitting,
prepare for
emergence.
Embody
contrition.
Continue
to listen.
Then carry.
Autumn Newman is a survivor of domestic violence, sexual assault, addiction, and suicide. She
is now thriving as a poet who lives with multiple disabilities. She has been nominated for a
Pushcart Prize and her poems have appeared most recently in Pratik: A Magazine of
Contemporary Writing, Rise Up Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal and Able Muse. More are
forthcoming at Cider Press Review. Follow Her On Instagram @AutumnNewman36
by Autumn Newman
Watch the green cornfields so neat in their rows.
I start to cry as you start to shout.
Snapping your fingers in front of my nose:
I’ll give you something to cry about!
Shocked still my body pulls tight as a screw.
Wind from the window is pulsing and loud.
I am nothing, nothing but a dog to you.
I will not cower; I am too proud.
Light up a smoke, and blow the match out.
Dig my long nails deep into my palm.
Take a long drag, and blow the smoke out.
Look at the nail marks deep in my palm.
It’s always the same, but it always feels new.
Shocked still my body pulls tight as a screw.
Black Birds Flying
by Autumn Newman
but I have a self to recover, a queen.
~Sylvia Plath, “Stings”
We rise, and the blue sky is filled with our song
and the beating of wings in the wind.
We throw shadows, holding the sun on our backs.
We catch wind and release all our weight.
We weave up and down and across. So close
we are one bird trilling the sky.
Recovery
by Autumn Newman
Addiction is a baby bird--
featherless, raw; with eyes still sealed
shut; it’s head tilted back too far;
mouth always open; body pulsing
with ceaseless chirps. But I grew talons
and kicked each bald chick out of my nest.
The 12 Steps: A Love Poem
by Autumn Newman
Lean into
belief in
a higher
existence.
Admitting,
prepare for
emergence.
Embody
contrition.
Continue
to listen.
Then carry.
Autumn Newman is a survivor of domestic violence, sexual assault, addiction, and suicide. She
is now thriving as a poet who lives with multiple disabilities. She has been nominated for a
Pushcart Prize and her poems have appeared most recently in Pratik: A Magazine of
Contemporary Writing, Rise Up Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal and Able Muse. More are
forthcoming at Cider Press Review. Follow Her On Instagram @AutumnNewman36
My Body is My Bank
by Jenny Olson
My body is my bank
There is an old saying
It’s money in the bank
I walk around and say
My body is my bank
My body is my bank
It’s how I make my money
It buys important things
It’s money in the bank
I walk around always knowing
My body is my bank
My body is my bank
It’s how I make my living
And every night’s a payday
It’s money in the bank
I walk around secure in it all
My body is my bank
My body is my bank
It’s how I feed my habits
It’s money to the dealer, my man, the landlord
It’s money in the bank
It’s food and diapers for my son
My body is my bank
My body is my bank
Until it is no more
I owe the dealer, my man, the landlord
It’s money down the drain
No more food or diapers
My body is my bank?
On the Corner
by Jenny Olson
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
She leans against the building
Acting nonchalant, cigarette in her hand
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
Midtown, surrounded by hotels
Trick hotel up the block, she waits
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
Other girls, in other doorways
Waiting for that trick to stop
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
She doesn’t look like what she is
You could take her anywhere
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
But what is she? Bound to a man
Bound to cocaine, bound to money
On the corner, during the night
What in the fuck is she to do?
What in the fuck is she to do?
Weight of Hundreds
by Jenny Olson
Can’t breathe
Chest pounding
Head hurts
Is she sick?
Woke up from her slumber
To some new hell again
The weight of hundreds of men
Laying across her body
Their tongues
Their hands
Their cocks
Takes her breath away
Can’t breathe
Chest pounding
Head hurts
Is she sick?
Woke up from her slumber
So many years later
Victimless crime? Fuck she says
They all went home
Gathered their briefcases
Caught the train or plane
And moved on
Can’t breathe
Chest pounding
Head hurts
Is she sick?
Woke up from her slumber
To a neverending nightmare
Collar for my Neck
by Jenny Olson
You brought it home
You thought it would be fun
Spice things up a bit, even a hooker needs fun, right?
Let’s add something to sex besides cocaine
A fucking so, so nice leather collar for my neck…
With spikes
You brought it home
You thought it would be fun
Oh, and there’s a leash as well
A collar for my neck
You brought it home
You thought it would be fun
My heart sank, you had no clue
A collar to my neck
You brought it home
You thought it would be fun
I’d call you Daddy and be your little dog
A collar for my neck
My soul died a bit that day
When you brought it home
You thought it would be fun
Another way to kill me
Jenny Olson started her writing journey only recently, as a means to process years of
abuse, sex work, and addiction. It has become her passion and what feeds her soul with joy.
Her hope is that her words make people feel and think. And that her voice becomes the voice
for the woman who have walked these paths. Her work has been published in LEO Literary Journal, MiniMag and more. You can find more of her poems on her website: Jenny Olson Poet – Poetry of Jenny Olson
by Jenny Olson
My body is my bank
There is an old saying
It’s money in the bank
I walk around and say
My body is my bank
My body is my bank
It’s how I make my money
It buys important things
It’s money in the bank
I walk around always knowing
My body is my bank
My body is my bank
It’s how I make my living
And every night’s a payday
It’s money in the bank
I walk around secure in it all
My body is my bank
My body is my bank
It’s how I feed my habits
It’s money to the dealer, my man, the landlord
It’s money in the bank
It’s food and diapers for my son
My body is my bank
My body is my bank
Until it is no more
I owe the dealer, my man, the landlord
It’s money down the drain
No more food or diapers
My body is my bank?
On the Corner
by Jenny Olson
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
She leans against the building
Acting nonchalant, cigarette in her hand
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
Midtown, surrounded by hotels
Trick hotel up the block, she waits
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
Other girls, in other doorways
Waiting for that trick to stop
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
She doesn’t look like what she is
You could take her anywhere
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
On the corner, during the night
On the corner
But what is she? Bound to a man
Bound to cocaine, bound to money
On the corner, during the night
What in the fuck is she to do?
What in the fuck is she to do?
Weight of Hundreds
by Jenny Olson
Can’t breathe
Chest pounding
Head hurts
Is she sick?
Woke up from her slumber
To some new hell again
The weight of hundreds of men
Laying across her body
Their tongues
Their hands
Their cocks
Takes her breath away
Can’t breathe
Chest pounding
Head hurts
Is she sick?
Woke up from her slumber
So many years later
Victimless crime? Fuck she says
They all went home
Gathered their briefcases
Caught the train or plane
And moved on
Can’t breathe
Chest pounding
Head hurts
Is she sick?
Woke up from her slumber
To a neverending nightmare
Collar for my Neck
by Jenny Olson
You brought it home
You thought it would be fun
Spice things up a bit, even a hooker needs fun, right?
Let’s add something to sex besides cocaine
A fucking so, so nice leather collar for my neck…
With spikes
You brought it home
You thought it would be fun
Oh, and there’s a leash as well
A collar for my neck
You brought it home
You thought it would be fun
My heart sank, you had no clue
A collar to my neck
You brought it home
You thought it would be fun
I’d call you Daddy and be your little dog
A collar for my neck
My soul died a bit that day
When you brought it home
You thought it would be fun
Another way to kill me
Jenny Olson started her writing journey only recently, as a means to process years of
abuse, sex work, and addiction. It has become her passion and what feeds her soul with joy.
Her hope is that her words make people feel and think. And that her voice becomes the voice
for the woman who have walked these paths. Her work has been published in LEO Literary Journal, MiniMag and more. You can find more of her poems on her website: Jenny Olson Poet – Poetry of Jenny Olson
Somewhere in an alternate universe
by Jaimee Johnson
There is a version of me
That is beyond anything
I’ve ever been to me
In that alternate universe
There’s a version of me
That demolished everything negative
I’ve ever said to me
In an alternate universe
there is a version of me
That exists and believes in me
She exists
Without questioning me
My beauty or gifts
This version of me is proud
of all she has grown to be
She doesn’t shame, she doesn’t criticize she doesn’t demean the light in me
She is perfect in every way , but not because she changed anything about me
In this alternate universe
It didn’t change my hair
Or the size of my hips
It didn’t change
My weight
Or the plumpness of my lips
It didn’t change my experiences
Or the things I’ve faced
It didn’t change my culture
It didn’t change my face
But in this alternate universe something definitely changed
It changed how I talk to me
How I respond to me
How I show up for me
How I love me
How I understand God designed me so perfectly
In an alternate universe
There is this another version of me
I am she and she is me
Post
Traumatic
Stress:
by Jaimee Johnson
Tell me have you ever been in the middle of your day and all the sudden you’re ripped into another moment
A moment you recognize but isn’t right now
What’s happening? Just a minute ago you were in the now
And now you are stuck in the then
Now the tears are flowing, you're in the corner with your hands over your ears rocking back and forth, shaking uncontrollably.
Welcome to post traumatic stress.
Let me know, have you ever been in a room full of people and all the sudden the walls close in?
In a room full of 100 friends, now all the sudden everyone’s against you?
Who’s your enemy. Who’s out to harm you?
A quick jolt of your head because you just see your attacker, wait no, that wasn’t him.
Come back to reality. Tap on your chest.
1
2 ... breathe.
Tap ... tap
3
4....breathe.
Welcome to post traumatic stress
You ever been walking down the street
And a car backfires and your body tightens and you drop to the ground?
Now everyone’s staring at you, whispering, laughing at your “crazy”
Your hearts beating so fast, you swear it could explode right there and then
U slowly look up and realize the sound wasn’t intended to harm you
Welcome to post traumatic stress
Your mind sometimes knows, but your body reacts anyways.
Uncontrollable shaking
Flashes of people who aren’t really there
Attacks that you can feel from the past
Almost like they are happening over again right now.
Paralyzing pain that makes you feel sick
So many “no not tonight I’m Gonna stay in”
When friends call to invite you out because of the anxious fear of the inevitable happening when you get into a crowded space
Flashbacks and memories that seem to never diminish
Tears that won’t stop flowing
Anger that won’t subside
Fear that won’t decease
Pain that won’t heal
Peace that was ripped by a traumatic event
Freedom that was taken by an action that someone
Or something did to you
Welcome to post traumatic stress.
After a decade
by Jaimee Johnson
You know what's crazy?
The pain runs so deep, Watching you slip away, chasing illusions, unable to keep.
We never even got the sober version of you.
You always gave us a little taste then packed up and took it all home with you.
We were left with scraps, when the world sent you back black and blue,
Trying to meet you where you stood,
We withstood all we could from you.
But it seemed the more we stayed the more we would fall
I never expected perfection,
no one's flawless, it's clear,
But loyalty and love,
I expected by this 10th year.
Yet you easily dismissed us,
as if we wasn’t shit ,
Performing for the fake,
a facade that leaves us all split
Apologies to your roots, to the city you call home, Yet no apologies for the families left in the unknown.
But that's alright, because me and mine will thrive,
Creating a world where love remains alive.
Leaving behind the fragments of the narcissist's game,
We'll find strength within, reclaim our own name. Though the chapter ends, we'll be okay,
you'll see, Rising above the abandonment
and pain, setting our souls free.
Jaimee Janai Johnson, known by her pen name, is a resilient poet whose journey through adversity has become a canvas for her evocative words. Her poetic voyage began in 2009, within the confines of a county jail cell. It was there that Jaimee turned to poetry as a lifeline—a means to escape the harsh realities of her environment and to chronicle the traumas she faced. What started as an outlet transformed into a powerful means of expression, channeling her anger, pain, and trauma into verses that resonated with others.
Her poetry is a tapestry woven from her own experiences—surviving prostitution, enduring domestic violence, and triumphing over addiction. Through introspective narratives that delve into the depths of human emotion, Jaimee brings her readers into her world. She invites them to explore the darkest corners of society while discovering the glimmers of hope, empowerment, and resilience that shine even in the midst of despair.
Beyond her written words, Jaimee is a devoted single mother of three, a sports enthusiast, and an advocate for tackling taboo subjects within marginalized communities. Her creative process is driven by her love for her family, her commitment to social justice, and her determination to craft solutions that uplift her community. Follow Her On Instagram @ _spiritual_gangster_
An Open Letter to My Fellow Survivor
by Cora Rice
An open letter to my fellow survivor,
You’re a thriver,
Alive for
You strive for
More, better, greater, EMPOWERED!
They tried, Fam but they couldn’t devour
The Diamond You Are; look how you were pressed
We won’t turn back, we will NOT repress
We don’t regress,
Stress
Or become depressed!
We wear our Crowns and carry the cross
So we can share our story with anyone who is lost
That they, too, can reunite with themselves
No longer the toys set up on the shelves;
We are strong and able, Remarkable Souls
With more value and worth than all the World’s Gold
For the things meant to break us, we broke through!
And one Survivor to Another, please know “I Love You”
Healing
by Cora Rice
I already survived the trauma
Then stayed locked in the drama
I couldn’t let it go, I thought
Feelings flooded, I was distraught
Just shut it off, I must not feel
Confused as to why I did not heal
I closed it out; there is no issue
Tears strewn down, pass me a tissue
Do you want to talk? No I’m too busy
Days into nights, my world’s in a tizzy
I just can’t face it. Do NOT force
I say to the angels sent by the source
I refused and denied
Lacked and lied
Mostly to myself however
When I meant yes, I said never
I didn’t know just how sick I was
The most shocking part; I am the cause
Not only of my hurt but also others
Children, friends and even lovers
I shut out myself and my whole life
People I love were stabbed by the knife
Of selfishness, pity and even hate
I don’t want to hurt them! Is it too late?
What do I do? Please make it stop!
How do I get myself back on top?
You go through it, Cora. Begin the process
The longer you don’t, the less progress
How do I start? What do I do?
You start by taking a look at you.
Don’t be afraid to really clean house
Love yourself before you find your spouse
You don’t make repair, you won’t find peace
So I started the work and found a new lease
Many tears later, I’m doing the work
Relationships better, cuz I’m less of a jerk
I care about me and care about others
Better with my kids and also my mother
I don’t recommend people try what I did
I couldn’t duck the issue wherever I hid
What I can say is that you’re not alone
And if you need help, pick up the phone
The Game
by Cora Rice
They say “Do what you love”
So I chose to fuck
I wasn’t aware at first
That this a “game” of luck
Like roulette,
Not Russian, and there is no wheel
Sometimes it comes with
Your face up against steel
Do they pull it?
Do they pull out?
Do they smack me nice or not?
Do they rob me?
Do they kill me?
Do they lock me up or not?
They say “It’s easy money”
So then I post up
Now I’m scared
I’m aware this game eats you up
Like roulette,
Not Russian, and there is no wheel
Sometimes it comes with
Your face up against steel
Will they rape me?
Will they tape me?
Will they be the police or not?
Will they like me?
Will they strike me?
Will they have a wife or not?
They say “Don’t be a Hoe”
So now I’m stuck
Once you go there
There’s no repair so I guess I’m fucked up
Like Chess,
With no board, no rook nor knight
Calculate your moves, Queen
Check, mate? Checks your life
Can they see me?
Can they hear me?
Can they tell if I’m faking or not?
Can they save me?
Can they betray me?
Can they come today or not?
They say “Don’t fuck for free”
So I’m back in this spot
I’m no longer a person now
A walking mouth and twat
Like Chess,
With no board, no rook nor knight
Calculate your moves, Queen
Check, mate? Checks your life
Are they clean?
Are they mean?
Are they gonna be fast or not?
Are they real?
Are they catching feels?
Are they gonna show up or not?
They say a lot. Don’t they?
So I emptied the cup
And now I share
Just why I was there in the life of a slut
Like spades,
With different books
But you still follow suit, until you cut
I am free.
I am Me.
I am not property to be bought.
I am a writer.
I am a fighter.
I am more than what I thought.
I say “The next chapter begins”
So I begin to jot
And these words
That you heard
They exposed me a lot
Like spades,
With different books
But you still follow suit, until you cut
I am grateful.
I am able.
I am living the life I desire.
I am pretty.
I am witty.
I am Water and I am Fire.
Cora Rice is a bright light, writer, artist and survivor residing in Louisiana. She is a mom of 3, a thriving creative soul and an incredible friend. Connect with her on Instagram @iamcorarice
by Cora Rice
An open letter to my fellow survivor,
You’re a thriver,
Alive for
You strive for
More, better, greater, EMPOWERED!
They tried, Fam but they couldn’t devour
The Diamond You Are; look how you were pressed
We won’t turn back, we will NOT repress
We don’t regress,
Stress
Or become depressed!
We wear our Crowns and carry the cross
So we can share our story with anyone who is lost
That they, too, can reunite with themselves
No longer the toys set up on the shelves;
We are strong and able, Remarkable Souls
With more value and worth than all the World’s Gold
For the things meant to break us, we broke through!
And one Survivor to Another, please know “I Love You”
Healing
by Cora Rice
I already survived the trauma
Then stayed locked in the drama
I couldn’t let it go, I thought
Feelings flooded, I was distraught
Just shut it off, I must not feel
Confused as to why I did not heal
I closed it out; there is no issue
Tears strewn down, pass me a tissue
Do you want to talk? No I’m too busy
Days into nights, my world’s in a tizzy
I just can’t face it. Do NOT force
I say to the angels sent by the source
I refused and denied
Lacked and lied
Mostly to myself however
When I meant yes, I said never
I didn’t know just how sick I was
The most shocking part; I am the cause
Not only of my hurt but also others
Children, friends and even lovers
I shut out myself and my whole life
People I love were stabbed by the knife
Of selfishness, pity and even hate
I don’t want to hurt them! Is it too late?
What do I do? Please make it stop!
How do I get myself back on top?
You go through it, Cora. Begin the process
The longer you don’t, the less progress
How do I start? What do I do?
You start by taking a look at you.
Don’t be afraid to really clean house
Love yourself before you find your spouse
You don’t make repair, you won’t find peace
So I started the work and found a new lease
Many tears later, I’m doing the work
Relationships better, cuz I’m less of a jerk
I care about me and care about others
Better with my kids and also my mother
I don’t recommend people try what I did
I couldn’t duck the issue wherever I hid
What I can say is that you’re not alone
And if you need help, pick up the phone
The Game
by Cora Rice
They say “Do what you love”
So I chose to fuck
I wasn’t aware at first
That this a “game” of luck
Like roulette,
Not Russian, and there is no wheel
Sometimes it comes with
Your face up against steel
Do they pull it?
Do they pull out?
Do they smack me nice or not?
Do they rob me?
Do they kill me?
Do they lock me up or not?
They say “It’s easy money”
So then I post up
Now I’m scared
I’m aware this game eats you up
Like roulette,
Not Russian, and there is no wheel
Sometimes it comes with
Your face up against steel
Will they rape me?
Will they tape me?
Will they be the police or not?
Will they like me?
Will they strike me?
Will they have a wife or not?
They say “Don’t be a Hoe”
So now I’m stuck
Once you go there
There’s no repair so I guess I’m fucked up
Like Chess,
With no board, no rook nor knight
Calculate your moves, Queen
Check, mate? Checks your life
Can they see me?
Can they hear me?
Can they tell if I’m faking or not?
Can they save me?
Can they betray me?
Can they come today or not?
They say “Don’t fuck for free”
So I’m back in this spot
I’m no longer a person now
A walking mouth and twat
Like Chess,
With no board, no rook nor knight
Calculate your moves, Queen
Check, mate? Checks your life
Are they clean?
Are they mean?
Are they gonna be fast or not?
Are they real?
Are they catching feels?
Are they gonna show up or not?
They say a lot. Don’t they?
So I emptied the cup
And now I share
Just why I was there in the life of a slut
Like spades,
With different books
But you still follow suit, until you cut
I am free.
I am Me.
I am not property to be bought.
I am a writer.
I am a fighter.
I am more than what I thought.
I say “The next chapter begins”
So I begin to jot
And these words
That you heard
They exposed me a lot
Like spades,
With different books
But you still follow suit, until you cut
I am grateful.
I am able.
I am living the life I desire.
I am pretty.
I am witty.
I am Water and I am Fire.
Cora Rice is a bright light, writer, artist and survivor residing in Louisiana. She is a mom of 3, a thriving creative soul and an incredible friend. Connect with her on Instagram @iamcorarice
(Escape)
by Sophia Jamali Soufi
Like the landing of yellow leaves
Sadness sits in my eyes
Pain explores my being
And the wounds get hot
I am full of escape
Full of longing that takes root in me
I take the suitcase
I give my heart to the rounds
The anger of the sky bursts on my face
My eyes tremble
I repeat in my mind
Someone will find me from the trail of tears...
(Loneliness)
by Sophia Jamali Soufi
Shadows wander through the house
Loneliness
Standing in the mirror
he asks me how I am
tell me
Of what love? how do i talk
Now that the wounds are growing on me
And the memories send me off with a cold kiss...
(Last Survivor)
by Sophia Jamali Soufi
the roses withered
the roofs collapsed
The alleys came to a dead end
The butterflies sank into the cocoon of death.
it's not heavenly anymore
it's not solar
no smile
bring a candle
close your eyes
come with me to the cemeteries
I am the last survivor...
(sting)
by Sophia Jamali Soufi
I have cried so much that I have forgotten my eyes
My smile is like a snake bite
complicated
painful
poisonous
The words die without coming out of the throat
I sigh
And I hug myself like that
that there is no escape but to split the mirror and dreams...
(the spell)
by Sophia Jamali Soufi
There is no smile on my face
No light shines on my eyes
Alone in the corner of the night
I sing my sad silence
Ah,
O cursed autumn
Nobody remembers me...
Sophia Jamali Soufi was born in Rasht, Iran. She is am a student of architecture. Since childhood, she has been very interested in writing poetry and reading books. Her first book titled "Sophia's memoirs" was published last year. Her poems have been translated into English, Portuguese, French, Spanish, Turkish, German and published in several literary magazines.
by Sophia Jamali Soufi
Like the landing of yellow leaves
Sadness sits in my eyes
Pain explores my being
And the wounds get hot
I am full of escape
Full of longing that takes root in me
I take the suitcase
I give my heart to the rounds
The anger of the sky bursts on my face
My eyes tremble
I repeat in my mind
Someone will find me from the trail of tears...
(Loneliness)
by Sophia Jamali Soufi
Shadows wander through the house
Loneliness
Standing in the mirror
he asks me how I am
tell me
Of what love? how do i talk
Now that the wounds are growing on me
And the memories send me off with a cold kiss...
(Last Survivor)
by Sophia Jamali Soufi
the roses withered
the roofs collapsed
The alleys came to a dead end
The butterflies sank into the cocoon of death.
it's not heavenly anymore
it's not solar
no smile
bring a candle
close your eyes
come with me to the cemeteries
I am the last survivor...
(sting)
by Sophia Jamali Soufi
I have cried so much that I have forgotten my eyes
My smile is like a snake bite
complicated
painful
poisonous
The words die without coming out of the throat
I sigh
And I hug myself like that
that there is no escape but to split the mirror and dreams...
(the spell)
by Sophia Jamali Soufi
There is no smile on my face
No light shines on my eyes
Alone in the corner of the night
I sing my sad silence
Ah,
O cursed autumn
Nobody remembers me...
Sophia Jamali Soufi was born in Rasht, Iran. She is am a student of architecture. Since childhood, she has been very interested in writing poetry and reading books. Her first book titled "Sophia's memoirs" was published last year. Her poems have been translated into English, Portuguese, French, Spanish, Turkish, German and published in several literary magazines.
On Sobriety
by A.J. Brown
On a sticky July day when I was ten, I spent three hours swimming back and forth between two
piers in a rainwater lake. I remember the heaviness of the water, the weightlessness of my body.
The rush of blissful nothing in my ears and dappled green sunlight over my eyes. The absence
of the noise of the world.
I think I was trying to recapture that feeling when I drank, to trap myself in the amber of that
summer afternoon. Drinking was like slipping under water. When I was drunk, I didn’t have to
think about how I kept waking up naked beside my partner with no memory of how I got there,
or that I didn’t love him anymore because of it. I didn’t have to think about the future, or that I
was starting to hate what I was getting my degree in. I didn’t have to think about why I started
drinking in the first place.
I could turn down the volume on the world.
I could live in suspension, weightless and muted, a kind of death. I knew death (the real kind)
was what I was hurtling toward, but I couldn’t stop. The world was too loud, the pain too sharp. I
wasn’t ready to face myself, or the things I was running from, or the damage I’d already caused.
But like being underwater, suspension can’t last forever. Eventually, we need to breathe.
Eventually, gravity acts on every object balanced on every delicate edge. Every time it acted on
me, I looked into the chasm of it all, dug my heels in, and pleaded with time for just a little bit
more. I’d take another breath and glide beneath the waves, just a little bit longer.
It wasn’t the time I almost drowned in my own vomit that got me sober, or the time I got in
trouble for going to class drunk at ten in the morning. It was when I broke a glass on my cat’s
third birthday. He had a stroke that year and we didn’t think he’d make it to three, but he did, so I
bought champagne. I shattered a glass by accident, my partner moved to help me clean it up,
and I shoved him away from me.
I don’t remember any of this. He told me about it the next morning, a familiar routine at that
point. I was used to waking up with terror in my throat, waiting to hear what I’d done and said
the night before. That morning, I saw what I was becoming, what I already was. Whether or not I
was ready to jump, I had to; there was no more time.
I called four rehabs that day before I got into one. It was on Zoom, because the world had just
ended. I broke the surface of that rainwater lake an eighteen year-old in a twenty three
year-old’s body, shivering in the swampy heat of another midwestern summer. As I clawed my
way to shore, I wondered if I’d explode like a beached whale when I got there.
The first year, it was hard to feel anything, between the pandemic and the move and the
breakup and the other move. I knew I’d lost everything, and I knew I deserved it. But I was
taking it one day at a time, and I was surviving. Shaky and sea-legged, I stood on that rocky
shore and looked out at the waves and the cliff-edge behind me.
On the first anniversary of my sobriety, June 25, 2021, I stuck a candle in a piece of pie, made a
joke about prohibition on instagram, and called it a day.
The second year was harder.
I grappled with the lost time, the things I’d done, the why of the losing it all. I spent June 25,
2022 alone, most of it crying. I wrote this in a note on my phone, before I went to bed:
No one is obligated to forgive me, but I am obligated to move forward.
There is so much ahead.
That day, I mourned all the things I fucked up, what I wasn’t strong enough to endure in the first
place. I grieved the person I should have been, everything I wished I could undo.
But as the shoreline receded from view, for the first time in my life, I was glad I wasn’t dead.
Today, June 25, 2023, I woke up in my own apartment, far away from Dewey Lake, to Ziggy’s
little wet nose on mine. He lays on my chest and purrs, a familiar routine at this point. Yesterday,
he turned six. For as long as he lives, today will belong to both of us.
After he’s gone, I’ll mourn the only birthday of his I do not remember. Next to me, letters and
drawings from my students and photographs of my friends crowd a bulletin board flanked by the
Teacher of the Year award I won this year, and my Master’s degree.
I think of how this week, I felt like a real writer for the first time. How there was nothing chemical
in the joy when I kicked my legs beneath my covers and fell asleep grinning.
Today, I will call my boyfriend in New York and tell him I miss him, and go to Stories with my
friends. I will make myself coffee, and paint. I might cry, I might mourn. I might put lavender
syrup in the coffee.
I will switch out the little embossed coin on my keys for the one that says III.
Or maybe I’ll just stick three candles in a piece of pie and call it a day.
No matter what I decide, three years will become four, four years will become five.
Underneath it all, that familiar brag of time:
there is so much ahead.
Aiden “A.J.” Brown is an LA-based writer and multimedia artist. Originally from Chicago, they received their Master’s degree in the Humanities with a concentration in English Literature at The University of Chicago in 2020. Read more from Aiden at TheFallofaSparrow.Substack.com and follow them on Instagram at inthefallofasparrow.
by A.J. Brown
On a sticky July day when I was ten, I spent three hours swimming back and forth between two
piers in a rainwater lake. I remember the heaviness of the water, the weightlessness of my body.
The rush of blissful nothing in my ears and dappled green sunlight over my eyes. The absence
of the noise of the world.
I think I was trying to recapture that feeling when I drank, to trap myself in the amber of that
summer afternoon. Drinking was like slipping under water. When I was drunk, I didn’t have to
think about how I kept waking up naked beside my partner with no memory of how I got there,
or that I didn’t love him anymore because of it. I didn’t have to think about the future, or that I
was starting to hate what I was getting my degree in. I didn’t have to think about why I started
drinking in the first place.
I could turn down the volume on the world.
I could live in suspension, weightless and muted, a kind of death. I knew death (the real kind)
was what I was hurtling toward, but I couldn’t stop. The world was too loud, the pain too sharp. I
wasn’t ready to face myself, or the things I was running from, or the damage I’d already caused.
But like being underwater, suspension can’t last forever. Eventually, we need to breathe.
Eventually, gravity acts on every object balanced on every delicate edge. Every time it acted on
me, I looked into the chasm of it all, dug my heels in, and pleaded with time for just a little bit
more. I’d take another breath and glide beneath the waves, just a little bit longer.
It wasn’t the time I almost drowned in my own vomit that got me sober, or the time I got in
trouble for going to class drunk at ten in the morning. It was when I broke a glass on my cat’s
third birthday. He had a stroke that year and we didn’t think he’d make it to three, but he did, so I
bought champagne. I shattered a glass by accident, my partner moved to help me clean it up,
and I shoved him away from me.
I don’t remember any of this. He told me about it the next morning, a familiar routine at that
point. I was used to waking up with terror in my throat, waiting to hear what I’d done and said
the night before. That morning, I saw what I was becoming, what I already was. Whether or not I
was ready to jump, I had to; there was no more time.
I called four rehabs that day before I got into one. It was on Zoom, because the world had just
ended. I broke the surface of that rainwater lake an eighteen year-old in a twenty three
year-old’s body, shivering in the swampy heat of another midwestern summer. As I clawed my
way to shore, I wondered if I’d explode like a beached whale when I got there.
The first year, it was hard to feel anything, between the pandemic and the move and the
breakup and the other move. I knew I’d lost everything, and I knew I deserved it. But I was
taking it one day at a time, and I was surviving. Shaky and sea-legged, I stood on that rocky
shore and looked out at the waves and the cliff-edge behind me.
On the first anniversary of my sobriety, June 25, 2021, I stuck a candle in a piece of pie, made a
joke about prohibition on instagram, and called it a day.
The second year was harder.
I grappled with the lost time, the things I’d done, the why of the losing it all. I spent June 25,
2022 alone, most of it crying. I wrote this in a note on my phone, before I went to bed:
No one is obligated to forgive me, but I am obligated to move forward.
There is so much ahead.
That day, I mourned all the things I fucked up, what I wasn’t strong enough to endure in the first
place. I grieved the person I should have been, everything I wished I could undo.
But as the shoreline receded from view, for the first time in my life, I was glad I wasn’t dead.
Today, June 25, 2023, I woke up in my own apartment, far away from Dewey Lake, to Ziggy’s
little wet nose on mine. He lays on my chest and purrs, a familiar routine at this point. Yesterday,
he turned six. For as long as he lives, today will belong to both of us.
After he’s gone, I’ll mourn the only birthday of his I do not remember. Next to me, letters and
drawings from my students and photographs of my friends crowd a bulletin board flanked by the
Teacher of the Year award I won this year, and my Master’s degree.
I think of how this week, I felt like a real writer for the first time. How there was nothing chemical
in the joy when I kicked my legs beneath my covers and fell asleep grinning.
Today, I will call my boyfriend in New York and tell him I miss him, and go to Stories with my
friends. I will make myself coffee, and paint. I might cry, I might mourn. I might put lavender
syrup in the coffee.
I will switch out the little embossed coin on my keys for the one that says III.
Or maybe I’ll just stick three candles in a piece of pie and call it a day.
No matter what I decide, three years will become four, four years will become five.
Underneath it all, that familiar brag of time:
there is so much ahead.
Aiden “A.J.” Brown is an LA-based writer and multimedia artist. Originally from Chicago, they received their Master’s degree in the Humanities with a concentration in English Literature at The University of Chicago in 2020. Read more from Aiden at TheFallofaSparrow.Substack.com and follow them on Instagram at inthefallofasparrow.