Friendship Flowersong

By JK. G

My friend, carry some flowers, fill both your arms and
chest, Let them thrive within your heart as
You travel, and travel
And travel even more
Homesick, tired, let Xolotl guide you,
Keep you safe,
Travel wetlands, dry lands, flat or mountainous.
Beat your drum in response to my rhythm,
Keep in mind our friendship, pumpkin flower,
May it fill your stomach, nourishing,
And drink from a golden cup
Soft cocoa.
Sing of your travels and adventures,
Turquoise songs through the wind,
Stand up, my friend,
Elated take your flowers to the drum:
Your bitterness flees,
With every beat, your inner drum gives,
Be glad and joyous throughout,
You are my friend,
Raise your head, carry some flowers.

Rochester’s July

By Mandi Zhu

Difference Between Lemons & Limes

By Charlie Black

Standing
The youngest person in the bar
This Is not where I belong
This place is not made for me
And yet I feel It is the perfect place for me because
Their hands
Pendulums swinging
From the microphone into the air
And back again
Tugging at a black shirt collar
I am perfectly content to spend the rest of my night
Dancing and yet unmoving
Unafraid of staring into their eyes
Of finding myself wishing that my leg hair was darker
My hair
Darker
Just like theirs
Because I still don’t know the difference between wanting someone And wanting to be them
Between desire and envy
Perhaps there is no difference
After all
Being and having become so intertwined
And so often
People find themselves
A part of someone else
Swaying
Feeling
The concrete floor resonate through my kneecaps
Their voice dripping dark and sour
Stinging my ears I’ve only ever wanted to be more than me once
Before now

Paper Chain

By Georgiana Nicolosi

The City, Part 1

By Emily Zielinski

I fear the pigeons will eat my bagel
If I venture into the cement-filled streets of New York City.
I got a poppy seed one today,
The cream cheese overflowed from the edges.
I always get butter- I should have gotten butter
But my curiosity pulled me into the corner store
To get this cheap bagel with its cheap cream cheese.
The grains got all stuck in my teeth making my smile stand out far too much.
The kids on the street all laugh at me,
And so I laugh at myself, and suddenly the seeds fall out of my mouth.
I throw away the bagel and keep walking up the street.

II. Avenue

By Mandi Zhu

If Memory Serves Right

By Joy Schumtz

Content warning: mentions of suicide, abuse, childhood trauma, and gruesome descriptions

15(1) pills. That’s all it takes, to end this. 15 pills, down the hatch. The cold floor of the bathroom seems more welcoming than ever. More than those nights full of crying. More than childhood nights of the stomach flu. Those 15 pills made the floor seem soft, comfier than any bed no matter how tired. I’ve never been this tired before. Tired enough to sleep forever.(2)

As my eyes open I’m standing on a wide red line. Like a red carpet a celebrity would stand on. The room is less than glamorous though. It is dark, my body on the floor, slumped over on itself, leaning on the bathtub, eyes closed and drooling out the side of my mouth. It looks peaceful. Stepping forward the room shifts. In a quick movement I stand looking at myself sneaking out of my room with a bottle of pills. It’s obvious it’s in my pocket, but no one is in the hall. I’m still on the line looking at myself from an hour ago. Past me seems unfazed, unaware of my presence, of our success. Past me looks like they still need that hour to psyche themselves into my current state. I step forward.

Another jump in time. I see an even younger version of myself getting off the bus. Tired from school. The pajamas I’m wearing are the ones I wore exclusively months ago. Low saturation colorful pajama pants with little cats on them and an oversized black sweatshirt with monkeys on the sleeves. Both have sauce stains that have been poorly wiped off. It’s clear I’d been wearing them for days as the sweat stains are clear even from across the street where I stand. I look like I smell. Hair was unbrushed and thrown into something you could argue is a bun, but the mats make it unclear. As the younger me approached I could tell I had been crying. My eyes didn’t seem too puffy, but mascara traced the sides of my cheeks. At least I had tried to look nice that day, but that never seems to end well for me.

Another step on the red pathway. I wanted to leave after I saw my sorry state. At least I was able to clean up today without any issues. I thought it would be easier if I just wore what I wanted to be buried in. I don’t really want to be buried, but I know it’s a family tradition to be put in the old mausoleum. Eternally trapped in the red brick on one of the cold marble benches. I’d rather be in the ground, damp and with the bugs, rather than the other deceased. I’ve always liked bugs, especially worms. Puddles on the ground and worms on the high points of the cement. They just want to survive the flooding, and yet people step on them, crushing them, pushing them to the ground, flat, dead.

I stop walking forward. Years have flashed by. I stood in the old chapel, family and friends all around. I step off the path. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but muscle memory kicked in. I walked through the crowd, phasing through people. Time doesn’t move unless I’m walking on the path. I go behind my past self, next to the casket. My hair was so long then, and had been styled even though the days before I remember refusing to move out of bed. I remember the pain of pulling all the tangles out for that… this day. The younger me was sobbing, but as I looked in the casket the face seemed less pale than I remembered.

(1) Not based on my life, but written in first person to seem more informal and personal, along with keeping the protagonist androganist to make them more relatable to more people.
(2) Psyche dies before her rebirth, and has died before the ending. Literal death and rebirth/resurrection. It also relates 44 | RUSHLIGHT to Psyche’s constant attempts of suicide.

(Continuing on page 45 of the Rushlight magazine)